C.8&7 


I 


THE     OGILVIES. 


NEW   YORK: 

HARPER   &   BROTHERS,   PUBLISHERS, 

329    &    331    PEARL    STREET, 
FRANKLIN   SQUARE. 


DEDICATION, 


YEARS  ago  I  used  to  say,  that,  if  I  ever  wrote  a  book,  it  should  be 
dedicated  to  my  mother. 

The  possibility— then  contemplated  almost  in  jest,  has  now  been 
fulfilled.  The  book  is  written :  but  all  else  is  changed.  I  will  keep  my 
promise  still. 

Let  this,  my  first  novel,  which  would  have  been  a  tribute  of  tenderest 
affection  to  the  Living,  become  a  solemn  offering  to  the  holy  memory 
of  the  Dead. 


G3S 


THE    OGILVIES. 


CHAPTER  I. 

She,  like  the  hazel  twig 

la  straight  and  slender ;  and  as  brown  in  hue 

As  hazel  nuts,  and  sweeter  than  their  kernels. 

SHAKSPEARK. 

"KATHARINE,  Katharine — where  is  Katharine 
Ogilvie  ?"  resounded  from  the  entrance-hall  of 
an  old  family  mansion,  in  which,  between  the 
twilight  and  moonlight  of  a  December  evening, 
a  group  of  young  people  were  assembled. 

"  Where  is  she  ?  why,  staying  to  adorn  herself, 
of  course,"  said  "a  young  lady,"  the  very  type, 
par  excellence,  of  that  numerous  class,  being  pret- 
ty-faced, pretty-spoken,  and  pretty-mannered. 
"  Was  there  ever  a  girl  of  sixteen,  who  did  not 
spend  two  hours  at  the  least,  in  dressing  for  her 
first  evening  party  ?  J  know  I  did." 

"  Very  likely,"  muttered  a  rather  fine-looking 
young  man,  who  stood  at  the  door.  "  I  dare  say 
you  do  the  same  now,  Bella.  But  Katharine  is 
not  one  of  your  sort." 

The  first  speaker  tossed  her  head.  "  That  is 
a  double-edged  compliment.  Pray,  Mr.  Hugh 
Ogilvie,  for  which  of  your  cousins  do  you  mean 
it?"  And  Miss  Isabella  Worsley,  shaking  her 
multitudinous  ringlets,  looked  up  in  his  face, 
with  what  she  doubtless  thought,  a  most  be- 
witching air  of  espieglerie. 

But  the  young  man  turned  away,  quite  unmoved. 
Her  fascinations,  so  apparently  displayed,  only 
vexed  him.  "  I  wish  some  of  you  children  would 
go  and  fetch  your  cousin.  Uncle  and  aunt  Ogil- 
vie are  quite  ready ;  and  Katharine  knows  her 
father  will  not  endure  to  be  kept  waiting,  even 
by  herself." 

"It  is  all  your  fault,  cousin  Hugh,"  inter- 
posed one  of  the  smaller  fry,  which  composed  the 
Christmas  family-party,  assembled  at  Summer- 
wood  Park.  "  I  feel  quite  sure  that  Katharine 
is  staying  to  tie  up  the  flowers  you  sent  her.  I 
told  her  how  scarce  they  were,  and  how  you 
rode  over  the  country,  all  this  morning,  in  search 
of  them,"  continued  the  wicked,  long-tongued 
little  imp  of  a  boy,  causing  Hugh  to  turn  very 
red,  and  walk  angrily  away;  and  consequently 
winning  an  approving  glance  from  the  elder  sis- 
ter of  all  the  juvenile  brood — Isabella  Worsley. 

"  Really,  Hugh,  what  a  blessing  such  a  cousin 
as  yourself  must  be,"  sneeringly  observed  the 
latter,  following  him  to  the  foot  of  the  staircase, 
where  he  stood  restlessly  beating  his  heel  upon 
the  stone  steps.  "  One  quite  envies  Katharine, 
in  having  you  so  constantly  at  Summerwood. 
Why,  it  is  better  for  her  than  possessing  half-a- 
dozen  brothers,  isn't  it  now '?  And  I  dare  say 
you  have  never  wanted  your  sister  Eleanor  at 
all !" 


Not  if  she  were  like  my  cousin  Bella," 
thought  Hugh;  but  he  made  no  audible  answer, 
except  beginning  a  long,  low  whistle— sports- 
man-fashion. 

"  I  declare,  he  is  calling  for  Katharine  as  he 
does  for  Juno— how  very  flattering  !"  cried  Isa- 
bella, laughing.  "Really,  Hugh,  this  sort  of 
behavior  does  not  at  all  match  with  that  elegant, 
evening  costume,  which,  by-the-by,  I  have  not 
yet  sufficiently  admired." 

;  I  wish  to  goodness  I  were  out  of  it,"  mut- 
tered Hugh.  "I  had  rather,  a  great  deal,  put 
on  my  shooting-jacket,  and  go  rabbit-hunting, 
than  start  for  this  dull  party  at  Mrs.  Lancaster's. 
Nothing  should  have  persuaded  me  to  it,  ex- 
cept— " 

"Except  Katharine,"  persisted  Miss  Worsley 
"  But  here  she  comes." 

At  this  moment,  a  young  girl  descended  the 
stairs.  Now,  whatever  the  poets  may  say,  there 
is  not  a  more  uncomfortable  and  unprepossessing 
age  than  "sweet  sixteen."  The  character  and 
manners  are  usually  alike  unformed — the  grace- 
ful frankness  of  childhood  is  lost,  and  the  calm 
dignity  of  womanhood  is  not  yet  gained.  Katha- 
rine Ogilvie  was  exactly  in  this  transition  state, 
with  regard  to  both  mind  and  person.  She  had 
outgrown  the  roundness  of  early  youth,  and  her 
tall,  thin  figure,  without  being  positively  awk- 
ward, bore  a  ludicrous  resemblance — as  the  short, 
plump  Miss  Worsley  often  remarked — to  a  let- 
tuce run  to  seed,  or  a  hyacinth  that  will  stretch 
out  its  long,  lanky  leaves  with  an  obstinate  de- 
termination not  to  flower.  This  attenuated  ap- 
pearance was  increased,  by  the  airy  evening 
dress  she  wore — a  half-mourning  robe,  exhibit- 
ing her  thin  neck  and  long  arms,  whose  slender- 
ness  caused  her  otherwise  well-formed  hands  to 
seem  somewhat  disproportionate.  Her  features 
were  regular  and  pleasing — but  her  dark,  almost 
sallow  complexion,  prevented  their  attracting 
the  notice  which  their  classical  form  deserved. 
But  the  girl  had  one  beauty,  which,  when  she 
did  chance  to  lift  up  her  long  lashes — a  circuits 
stance  by  no  means  frequent — was  almost  start- 
ling in  its  effect.  Katharine's  eyes  were  mag- 
nificent, of  the  darkest,  and  yet  most  limpid 
hazel — with  an  iris  of  that  clear,  bluish  white, 
which  gives  a  look  of  such  pure  brightness,  as 
f  the  deep,  unfathomable  orbs  were  floating  in 
their  own  light.  Therein  lay  the  chief  express 
sion  of  her  face ;  and  often,  when  the  rest  of  the 
features  seemed  perfectly  in  repose,  these  strange 
yes  were  suddenly  lifted  up.  repealing  such  u 
world  of  feeling,  enthusiasm,  passion,  and  ten- 
derness, that  her  whole  form  seemed  lighted  up 
into  beauty. 

'  Come  here,  Katharine,  and  let  us  all  have  a 


THfc   OGILVIES 


look  at  you,"  said  Isabella,  drawing  her  shrink- 
ing cousin  under  the  light  of  the  hall  lamp. 
•'  Well,  you  are  dressed  tolerably  to-night;  your 
hair  is  neat,  and  pretty  enough."  It  was,  in- 
deed, very  lovely,  of  a  rich  purple-black  hue, 
its  silken,  wavy  masses  being  most  gracefully 
folded  round  her  small  head.  "But,  Kath- 
arine, child,  what  makes  you  so  pale?  You 
ought  to  be  delighted  at  going  to  this  grand 
soiree ;  I  only  wish  I  had  been  invited  in  your 
stead." 

"  So  do  I  too.  Indeed,  Bella,  it  would  have 
been  much  pleasanter  for  me  to  stay  at  home," 
said  Katharine,  in  a  low,  timid  voice,  whose 
music  was  at  least  equal  to  the  beauty  of  her 
eyes. 

"  You  little  simpletom  to  say  so  !  But  I  don't 
believe  a  word,"  cried  Isabella. 

"You  may  believe  her  or  not,  just  as  you 
like.  Miss  Bella,  nobody  minds,"  answered  Hugh, 
rather  angrily,  as  he  drew  his  young  cousin's 
arm  through  his  own,  "  Come,  Katharine,  don't 
be  frightened,  I'll  take  care  of  you ;  and  we 
will  manage  to  get  through  this  formidable  iiter- 
ary  soiree  together." 

She  clung  to  him  with  a  grateful  and  affec- 
tionate look ;  which  would  certainly  have  once 
more  roused  Isabella's  acrid  tongue,  had  not 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ogilvie  appeared.  After  them 
followed  a  light-footed  graceful  girl  in  deep 
mourning.  She  carried  a  warm  shawl,  which 
she  wrapped  closely  round  Katharine. 

"There's  a  good  thoughtful  little  Nelly," 
said  Hugh,  admiringly,  while  Katharine  turned 
round  with  a  quick  impulse  and  kissed  her. 
But  she  did  not  say  a  word,  except,  "  Good- 
night, dear  Eleanor,"  for  her  young  heart  had 
fluttered  strangely  throughout  all  this  evening. 
However,  there  was  no  time  to  pause  over 
doubts  and  trepidations,  since  her  father  was 
already  calling  from  the  carriage,  and  thither  she 
was  herself  hurried  by  Hugh,  with  an  anxious 
care  and  tenderness  that  still  further  excited 
Isabella's  envious  indignation. 

"It  is  a  fine  thing  to  be  an  only  daughter, 
and  an  heiress,"  thought  she.  "  But  one  can 
easily  see  how  the  case  will  end.  Hugh  thinks, 
of  course,  that  he  may  as  well  get  the  estate 
with  the  title,  and  uncle  Ogilvie  will  be  glad 
enough  to  keep  both  in  the  family,  even  if  Hugh 
is  not  quite  so  rich  as  Croesus.  I  wonder  how 
much  money  old  Sir  James  will  leave  him, 
though.  Any  how,  it  is  a  good  match  for  a  lit- 
tle ugly  thing  like  Katharine.  But  the  husband 
she  gets  will  make  matters  even,  for  Hugh 
Ogilvie  is  a  common-place,  stupid  bore.  I 
would  not  have  married  him  for  the  world." 

Miss  Worsley's  anger  had  probably  affected 
her  memory,  since  she  came  to  pay  this  visit  to 
her  maternal  grand-father,  with  the  firm  de- 
termination so  to  "  play  her  cards"  as  regarded 
Hugh,  that  on  her  departure  she  might  have 
the  certainty  of  one  day  revisiting  Summer- 
wood  as  its  future  mistress. 

Let  us — thinking  of  the  fearful  number  of  her 
class  which  slur  and  degrade  the  pure  ideal  of 
womanhood — look  mournfully  on  this  girl.  She 
had  grown  wise  too  soon — wise  in  the  world's 
evil  sense.  With  her,  love  had  been  regarded 
alternately  as  a  light  jest  and  a  sentimental  pre- 
tense, at  an  age  when  she  could  not  understand  its 
Character,  and  ought  scarcely  to  have  heard  its 


name,  and  when  the  time  came  for  tho  full 
heart  of  womanhood  to  respond  to  the  mystic, 
universal  touch,  there  was  no  answer.  The 
one  holy  feeling  had  been  frittered  away  into  a 
number  of  small  fancies,  until  Isabella,  now 
fully  emerged  from  her  boarding-school  romance, 
believed  what  her  brother  told  her,  that  "  a  girl 
should  wait  till  she  is  asked  to  marry,  and  then 
make  the  best  match  she  can."  And  until  this 
desirable  event  happened,  which,  at  five-and- 
twenty,  seemed  farther  than  ever  from  her  earn- 
est longings,  Miss  Worsley  amused  herself  by 
carrying  on  passing  flirtations  with  every  agree- 
able young  man  she  met. 

But  while  Isabella's  vain  and  worldly  mind 
was  thus  judging  by  its  own  baser  motives,  the 
pure,  unsuspicious  nature  of  Katharine  Ogilvie, 
the  latter  sat  calmly  by  Hugh's  side,  enjoying 
the  dreamy  motion  of  the  carriage,  and  not  dis- 
posed to  murmur  at  the  silence  of  its  occu- 
pants, which  gave  her  full  liberty  to  indulge  in 
thought. 

"It  is  very  cold,"  at  last  observed  Mrs.  Ogil 
vie,  trying  to  make  the  most  original  observa- 
tion she  could,  in  order  to  rouse  her  husband, 
who  was  always  exceedingly  cross  after  his 
sleep  —  a  circumstance  whjph  she  naturally 
wished  to  prevent  if  possible.  A  grunt  an- 
swered her  observation. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  will  get  colder  than 
ever  if  you  go  to  sleep,  Mr.  Ogilvie  ?"  pursued 
the  lady. 

"Pray  suffer  me  to  decide  that,"  answered 
he.  "It  was  very  foolish  of  us  to  go  to  this 
party,  all  the  way  to  London,  on  such  a  wintry 
night. 

"  But,  my  dear,  you  know  Katharine  must  be 
brought  out  some  time  or  other,  and  Mrs.  Lan- 
caster's soiree  was  such  an  excellent  opportunity 
for  her,  since  we  can  not  have  a  ball  at  home  on 
account  of  Sir  James.  Mrs.  Lancaster  knowa 
all  the  scientific  and  literary  world — her  parties 
are  most  brilliant — it  is  a  first-rate  introduction 
for  a  girl." 

Poor  Katharine  felt  her  timidity  come  ovei 
her  with  added  painfulness,  and  she  heartily 
wished  herself  on  the  ottoman  at  her  grand- 
father's feet,  instead  of  on  her  way  to  this  ter- 
rible ordeal.  But  Hugh  gave  her  hand  an  en- 
couraging pressure,  and  she  felt  comforted.  So 
she  listened  patiently  to  her  mother's  enumera- 
tion of  all  the  celebrated  people  she  would  be 
sure  to  meet.  After  which  the  good  lady,  op. 
pressed  by  her  somnolent  husband's  example, 
leaned  her  head  back,  so  as  not  to  disarrange 
her  elegant  tiara,  and  fell  asleep  in  a  few  min- 
utes. 

The  carriage  rolled  through  the  unfrequent- 
ed  reads  which  mark  the  environs  of  the  metrop- 
Katharine  sat  watching  the  light  which 


olis. 


the  carriage-lamps  threw  as  they  passed,  illu- 
mining for  a  moment  the  formal,  leafless  hedges, 
until  every  trace  of  rurality  was  lost  in  the 
purely  suburban  character  of  the  villa-studded 
road.  The  young  girl's  vision,  and  the  most 
outward  fold  of  her  thoughts,  received  all  those 
|  things,  but  her  inner  mind  was  all  the  while  re- 
volving widely  different  matters,  and  chiefl 
this  unseen  world  of  society,  about  which  she 
had  formed  various  romantic  ideas,  the  pre- 
dominant one  being,  that  it  was  a  brilliant  daz- 
zling compound  of  the  scenes  described  in  Bv^ 


THE  OGILVIES. 


wer's  "  Godolphin,"  and  Mrs.  Gore's  novels, 
passim. 

It  is  hardly  possible  to  imagine  a  girl  more 
utterly  ignorant  of  the  realities  of  life  than  was 
Katharine  Ogilvie  at  sixteen.  Delicate  health 
had  made  her  childhood  solitary,  and  though 
fortune  had  bestowed  on  her  such  troops  of 
cousin-playfellows,  she  had  known  little  of  any 
of  them  except  Hugh  and  his  sister.  She  had 
seen  nothing  of  society,  or  of  the  amusements 
of  life,  for  her  quiet,  retired  parents  rarely 
mingled  in  the  world.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ogilvie 
were  a  pattern  couple  for  individual  excellence 
and  mutual  observance  of  matrimonial  proprie- 
ties. United  in  middle  life,  their  existence 
flowed  on  in  a  placid  stream — deep,  silent,  un- 
troubled ;  their  affection  toward  each  other,  and 
toward  their  only  child,  being  rather  passive 
than  active,  and  though  steady,  very  undemon- 
strative. So  Katharine,  whom  nature  had  cast 
in  a  different  mold,  became,  as  the  confiding 
and  clinging  helplessness  of  childhood  departed, 
more  and  more  shut  up  within  herself — looking 
to  herself  alone  for  amusement,  seeking  no 
sharer  either  in  her  pleasures  or  in  her  cares. 
A.  life  like  this  sometimes  educes  strength  and 
originality  of  character,  but  more  often  causes 
a  morbidness  of  feeling  which  contents  itself 
throughout  existence  with  dreaming,  not  acting. 
Or  if,  indeed,  the  soul's  long-restrained  and 
passionate  emotions  do  break  out,  it  is  with  a  ter- 
rible flood  that  sweeps  away  all  before  it.  Kath- 
arine was  by  no  means  sentimental,  for  the  term 
implies  affectation,  of  which  no  trace  had  ever 
marred  her  pure  nature.  But  her  whole  char- 
acter was  imbued  with  the  wildest,  deepest 
romance — the  romance  which  comes  instinctive- 
ly to  a  finely-constituted  mind,  left  to  form  its 
own  ideal  of  what  is  good  and  true.  Her  soli- 
tary childhood  had  created  an  imaginary  world, 
in  which  she  lived  and  moved,  side  by  side  with 
its  inhabitants.  These  were  the  heroes  and 
heroines  of  the  books  she  had  read — a  most 
heterogeneous  mass  of  literature,  and  of  hsr 
own  fanciful  dreams.  One  thing  only  was 
wanting  to  crown  her  romance.  Though  she 
had  actually  wasted  sixteen  years,  the  full  time 
allowed  for  its  ultimation  in  girlhood,  Katharine 
had  never  even  fancied  herself  "in  love" — ex- 
cept with  Zanoni.  A  few  vague  day-dreams 
and  nightly  fancies  had  of  late  floated  over  her 
spirit,  causing  her  to  yearn  for  some  companion 
higher  and  nobler  than  any  she  had  yet  known ; 
one  on  whom  she  might  expend,  not  merely  her 
warm  home-affections,  already  fully  bestowed 
on  her  parents  and  Hugh,  but  the  love  of  her 
soul,  the  worship  of  heart  and  intellect  com- 
bine^. And  she  had  of  late  tried  to  fulfill  this 
longing,  by  changing  her  ideal  hero  for  a  real 
humaa  being,  that  young  poet,  whose  life  was 
itself  a  poem — Keats.  His  likeness,  which 
Katharine  had  hung  up  in  her  room,  haunted 
her  perpetually,  and  many  a  time  she  sat  watch- 
ing that  face  with  its  dreamy  eyes,  passion- 
quivering  lips,  and  wavy  hair,  until  she  felt  for 
this  embodiment  of  the  beautiful  poet-soul,  now 
gone  from  earth,  a  sensation  very  like  that  love 
of  which  she  had  read,  that  strange,  delicious 
secret  which  was  to  her  as  yet  only  a  name. 

And  thus,  half  a  woman  and  half  a  child, 
Katharine  Ogilvie  was  about  to  pass  out  of  her 
Ideal  world,  so  fanvliar  and  so  dear,  into  the 


real  world,  of  which  she  knew  nothing.  No 
wonder  that  she  was  silent  and  disposed  to 
muse. 

"  Wake  up,  little  cousin  of  mine ;  what  are 
you  thinking  about  ?"  said  Hugh,  suddenly,  after 
an  interval  of  patience-waiting. 

Katharine  started,  and  her  reverie  was  broken. 
The  painful  consciousness  that  Hugh  might 
smile  at  her  for  having  been  "  in  the  clouds," 
as  he  called  these  fits  of  abstraction,  made  the 
color  rise  rapidly  in  her  cheek. 

"  What  made  you  imagine  I  was  thinking  at 
all?"  she  answered. 

"Merely  because  we  have  been  perfectly 
silent  for  the  last  Hour,"  answered  Hugh,  in  a 
tone  far  gentler  than  he  ever  used  to  Isabella, 
"  so  that  your  papa  and  mamma  have  had  time 
to  fall  comfortably  asleep,  and  I  have  grown 
quite  weary  and  cross,  through  not  having  the 
pleasant  talk  that  we  promised  ourselves  this 
morning." 

"  Dear  Hugh !  it  was  very  stupid  of  me." 

"Not  at  all,  dear  Katharine,"  Hugh  answer- 
ed, echoing  the  adjective  with  an  emphasis  that 
deepened  its  meaning  considerably.  "Not  at 
all — if  you  will  tell  me  now  what  occupied  your 
thoughts  so  much." 

But  Katharine,  sincere  as  was  her  affection 
for  her  cousin,  felt  conscious  that  he  would  not 
understand  one-half  of  the  fanciful  ideas  which 
had  passed  through  her  brain  during  tha't  long 
interval  of  silence.  So  her  reply  was  the  usual 
compromise — one  which  people  adopt  in  such 


"I  was  thinking  of  several  things;  among 
others,  of  Mrs.  Lancaster's  party." 

Hugh  looked  rather  annoyed.  "I  thought 
you  did  not  wish  to  go,  and  would  much  rather 
have  been  left  at  home." 

"  Yes,  at  the  last,  and  yet  all  this  fortnight  I 
have  been  longing  for  the  day.  Hugh,  did  you 
ever  feel  what  it  is  to  wish  for  any  thing,  and 
dream  of  it,  and  wonder  about,  it,  until  when  the 
time  came  you  grew  positively  frightened,  and 
almost  wished  that  something  would  happen  to 
frustrate  your  first  desire?" 

"Was  this  what  made  you  so  timid  then?" 

"  Perhaps  so — I  hardly  know.  I  enjoyed  the 
anticipation  very  much  until,  from  thinking  of 
all  the  wonderful  people  I  should  meet,  I  began 
to  think  about  myself.  It  is  a  bad  thing  to 
think  too  much  about  oneself,  Hugh — is  it  not?" 

Hugh  assented  abstractedly.  It  always  gav* 
him  much  more  pleasure  to  hear  Katharine  talk 
than  to  talk  himself;  and  besides  his  conversa,- 
tion  was  rarely  either  rapid  or  brilliant. 

Katharine  went  on. 

"  It  was,  after  all,  very  vain  and  foolish  of  me, 
to  fancy  that  any  one  I  should  meet  to-night 
would  notice  me  in  the  least.  And  so  I  have 
now  come  to  the  determination  not  to  think 
about  myself  or  my  imperfeetions,  but  to  enjoy 
this  evening  as  much  as  possible.  Tell  me, 
Hugh,  what  great  people  are  we  likely  to  see?" 

"  There  is  the  Countess  of  A ,  and  Lord 

William  B ,  and  Sir  Vivian  C ,"  said 

Hugh,  naming  a  few  of  the  minor  lights  of  the 
aristocracy,  who  lend  their  feeble  radiance  to 
middle-class  reunions. 

"I  do  not  call  these  'great  people,'"  an- 
swered Katharine,  in  a  tone  of  disappointment. 
"  They  are  not  my  heroes  and  heroines.  I  want 


THE  OGILVIES. 


to  see  great  writers,  great  poets,  great  paint- 
ers," she  continued,  with  an  energy  that  made 
Hugh  open  his  great  blue  eyes  to  their  utrr  ?st 


"  Well,  well,  my  littJe  enthusiast,  you  will  see 
plenty  of  that  sort  of  people  too." 

"  That  sort  of  people,"  repeated  Katharine, 
in  a  low  tone,  and  she  shrank  into  herself, 
and  was  silent  for  five  minutes.  A  feeling 
of  passing  vexation,  even  toward  Hugh,  op- 
pressed her,  until  a  chance  movement  wafted 
toward  her  the  perfume  of  her  flowers — the 
flowers — to  procure  which,  he  had  ridden  for 
miles  over  the  country — that  rainy  morning. 
A  trifle  sways  one's  feelings  sometimes:  and 
Katharine's  at  once  turned  toward  Hugh,  with 
an  almost  contrite  acknowledgment  of  his 
kind  nature.  She  sought  an  opportunity  to 
remove  any  painful  impression  her  sudden  silence 
might  have  given  him. 

"  Well,  here  we  are,  almost  at  our  journey's 
end,  and  papa  and  mamma  are  still  asleep.  We 
shall  have  very  little  more  time  for  our  talk, 
Hugh — so  make  haste,  and  tell  me  what  occu- 
pied your  thoughts,  during  that  long  hour  of  si- 
lence?" 

"Not  now,  dear  Katharine,  not  now!"  said 
her  cousin,  in  a  tone  so  low  and  hurried,  that 
Katharine  would  have  been  compelled  to  repeat 
the  question,  had  not  the  carriage  stopped,  and 
the  sudden  waking  of  the  elders  produced  a 
change  in  the  state  of  affairs. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Meanwhile  the  day  sinks  fast,  the  sun  is  set. 
And  in  the  lighted  hall  the  guests  are  met. 
On  frozen  hearts  the  fury  rain  of  wine 
Falls,  and  the  dew  of  music,  more  divine, 
Tempers  the  deep  emotions  of  the  time 


How  many  meet  who  never  yet  have  met, 
To  part  too  soon,  but  never  to  forget ; 
But  life's  familiar  vail  was  now  withdrawn, 
As  the  world  leaps  before  an  earthquake's  dawn. 

SHE  LUCY. 

BEFORE  Katharine  had  time  once  more  to 
grow  terrified  at  the  sudden  realization  of  her 
ideal  of  the  world,  she  found  herself  in  the  brill- 
iant drawing-rooms  of  Mrs.  Lancaster,  follow- 
ing in  the  wake  of  her  stately  parents,  and  cling- 
ing, with  desperate  energy,  to  the  arm  of  her 
cousin  Hugh.  Her  eyes,  dazzled  and  pained  by 
the  sudden  transition  from  darkness  to  light,  saw 
only  a  moving  mass  of  gay  attire,  which  she  was 
utterly  unable  to  individualize.  Her  ear  was 
bewildered  by  that  scarcely  suppressed  din  of 
many  voices,  which  makes  literary  conversazioni 
in  general  a  sort  of  polite  Babel.  In4eed,  the 

rng  girl's  outward  organs  of  observation  were 
the  time,  quite  dazzled ;  and  sb<*  only  awoke 
to  life  on  hearing  her  mother  say — 

"  Mrs.  Lancaster,  allow  m«  to  introduce  to 
you  my  daughter,  Katharine." 

Now,  ever  since  Mrs.  Ogiivie  had  discovered 
an  old  schoolfellow  in  the  celebrated  Mrs.  Lan- 
caster, Katharine  had  heard  continually  of  the 
lady  in  question.  Every  one  talked  of  her  as  a 
" clever  woman," — "  a  blue," — an  extraordinary 
creature — a  woman  of  mind ;  and,  somehow,  the 
girl  had  pictured  to  herself  a  till,  masculine, 
loud-voiced  dame.  Therefore,  ?he  was  agreea- 
bly surprised,  at  seeing  before  her  a  lady — c 


:ainly  not  pretty,  nor  young,  except  in  her  attire, 
aut,  nevertheless,  graceful,  from  her  extreme 
smallness  and  delicacy  of  figure;  nor  was  there 
any  thing  outre  in  her1  appearance,  except  a  pe- 
culiar style  of  head-dress,  which  set  off  the  shape 
of  her  face  to  much  advantage.  This  face  was 
not  remarkable  for  an  intellectual  expression, 
though  the  features  evidently  perpetually  strug- 
led  to  attain  one.  Still  in  spite  of  her  semi-wild 
glances,  compressed  lips,  and  fixed  attitudes, 
Mrs.  Lancaster  never  could  succeed  in  appearing 
a  genius,  but  was  merely  an  agreeable-looking, 
stylish  little  lady. 

In  that  character,  Katharine  was  not  in  the 
least  afraid  of  her.  Infinitely  relieved,  she  felt 
the  light  touch  of  the  jewelecf  fingers,  and  listen- 
ed  to  the  blandest  and  best-modulated  welcome 
that  female  lips  could  utter,  until  the  girl's  pre- 
vailing sentiments  were  those  of  intense  relief, 
deep  admiration,  and  undying  gratitude,  toward 
Mrs.  Lancaster. 

Immediately  afterward,  a  tall,  thin,  pale  young 
man,  who  stood  behind  the  lady,  timidly  and 
silently  shook  hands  with  Katharine's  parents, 
and  then,  to  her  infinite  surprise,  with  her- 
self. 

"  Who  is  that  gentleman  ?  I  don't  know  him," 
said  Katharine,  in  a  whisper,  to  Hugh.  "  Why 
did  not  mamma  introduce  me — and  why  did  he 
not  speak?" 

"  Oh  !  it  is  only  Mr.  Lancaster,  Mrs.  Lancas- 
ter's husband,"  answered  Hugh,  with  a  scarce- 
ly perceptible  smile.  "  He  rarely  speaks  to  any 
body,  and  nobody  minds  him  at  all." 

"How  very  odd,"  thought  Katharine,  whose 
idea  of  a  husband — when  the  subject  did  occupy 
her  mind — was  some  noble  being,  to  whom  the 
wife  could  look  up  with  reverent  admiration,  who 
was  always  to  take  the  lead  in  society,  she  fol- 
lowing after  like  a  loving  shadow — but  still  only  a 
shadow— of  himself.  Katharine  watched  Mrs. 
Lancaster,  as  she  flitted  about  here  and  there,  all 
smiles  and  conversation,  while  the  silent  husband 
retreated  to  a  corner;  and  she  thought  once 
more,  how  very  strange  it  was.  She  expressed 
as  much  to  Hugh,  when,  after  great  difficulty, 
they  at  last  found  a  seat,  and  talked  together  in 
that  deep  quietude  which  is  nowhere  greater 
than  in  a  crowded  assembly  of  strangers. 

But  Hugh  did  not  seem  at  all  surprised;  he 
had  not  known  the  Lancasters  long,  he  said; 
but  he  believed  they  were  a  very  happy  couple. 
Mrs.  Lancaster  was  a  very  superior  woman,  and 
perhaps  that  was  the  reason  she  took  the  lead, 
rather  than  her  husband. 

"  My  husband  shall  never  be  a  man  inferior  to 
myself;  he  shall  be  one  whom  I  can  worship, 
reverence,  look  up  to,  in  every  thing,"  said 
Katharine,  while  her  eye  dilated,  and  her  cheek 
glowed  with  earnestness.  But  when  she  caught 
Hugh's  look  fixed  upon  her  with  intense  astonish- 
ment, deepened  by  an  expression  then  quite  in- 
explicable to  her,  Katharine  suddenly  felt  con- 
scious that  she  had  said  something  wrong,  and 
shrank  abashed  into  her  corner.  She  was  not 
disturbed,  for  Hugh  did  not  answer  a  word,  but 
once  or  twice  she  fancied  she  heard  him  sigh 
heavily. 

"Ah,  poor  Hugh!"  thought  Katharine,  "h« 
imagines  his  wild  cousin  will  never  amend. 
And  yet,  I  only  spoke  what  I  thought.  I  must 
not.  do  that  any  more.  Perhaps  my  thoughts 


THE  OGILVIES. 


are  foolish  or  wrong,  since  no  one  else  seems  to 
understand  them." 

And  Katharine,  glad  as  she  had  felt  of  Hugh's 
society  and  protection  in  this  gay  place  of  deso- 
lation— for  so  it  seemed  to  her — experienced  a 
feeling  very  like  relief,  when  a  lady  near  them 
addressed  her  cousin,  and  occupied  his  attention, 
so  that  she  herself  could  sit  still  and  think.  It 
was  an  amusement  to  her  to  watch  the  different 
combinations  of  the  kaleidoscope  of  moving 
humanity  which  passed  in  review  before  her ; 
looking  at  the  different  individuals,  and  speculat- 
ing on  their  characters,  or  weaving  little  his- 
tories that  might  belong  to  each.  Katharine 
took  most  interest  in  her  own  sex,  who,  with 
their  zephyr-like  dresses,  and  smiling  air,  at 
least  approached  her  ideas  of  outward  grace; 
but  the  "fine  gentlemen"  of  a  modern  drawing- 
room  did  not  at  all  resemble  the  heroes  with 
which  the  romance-loving  girl  had  peopled  her 
world.  See  hardly  bestowed  a  second  glance 
upon  any  of  them. 

At  last,  while  her  eyes  were  vacantly  fixed  on 
the  door,  it  opened  and  admitted  a  gentleman. 
Katharine  looked  at  him,  and  this  time  her  gaze 
was  attracted  a  second  time — a  third — until  it 
rested  permanently  on  this  fortunate  individual. 

He  was,  in  truth,  a  man  of  striking  appearance. 
Not  from  his  personal  beauty,  for  there  were 
many  in  the  room  whose  features  were  far  more 
perfect  than  his,  but  from  an  inexpressible  dig- 
nity, composure  of  manner,  and  grace  of  move- 
merit,  to  which  his  tall  figure  gave  every  ad- 
vantage. His  clear,  open  countenance  was  not 
disfigured  by  any  of  the  modern  atrocities  of 
mustache  and  imperial,  no  starched  white  cravat 
hid  the  outline  of  his  chin  and  upper  throat,  and 
his  dark,  crisped  hair  was  thrown  back,  giving  a 
classic  beauty  to  the  whole  head.  He  had  a 
complexion  of  clear  brown;  and  calm,  contem- 
plative eyes,  of  that  dark  gray  which  seems  ever 
changing  in  hue  and  expression.  But  no  indi- 
vidual feature  would  adequately  give  an  idea  of 
the  indescribable  air  which  at  once  impressed  an 
observing  mind,  with  the  conviction  that  this 
man  was  different  to  other  men.  Even  the 
slight  singularities  of  dress — usually  puerile  and 
contemptible  affectations — were  by  him  made 
so  completely  subservient  to  the  wearer,  that 
the  most  captious  could  not  accuse  him  of  con- 
ceit o*  eccentricity.  Had  he  appeared  in  a 
Roman  toga  he  would  have  carried  it  with  an 
air  that  would  have  identified  the  dress  with  the 
man,  and  prevented  'both  from  seeming  ridic- 
ulous. 

This  was  he  on  whom  Katharine's  young  eyes 
vested  the  moment  he  entered  the  room.  Let 
the  world  laugh  as  it  will  at  first  impressions,  or 
as  we  might  say  with  the  poet — 

•t 
"  Love  at  first-sight,  first-born,  and  heir  to  all." 

But  we  do  not  go  so  far  as  our  well-beloved 
Tennyson.  First  impressions  are  not  love,  but, 
as  the  first  streaks  of  dawn  foretell  the  glorious 
noon,  into  which  they  at  last  expand,  so  does 
this  s-hadowy  light  merge  into  the  broad  day  of 
love.  Oh !  Katharine,  simple  Katharine,  who 
watched  that  face  with  a  vague  deepening  in- 
terest, feeling  certain  that  she  had  seen  it  before 
— it  seemed  so  familiar  yet  so  new — to  whom 
that  one  stately  form  appeared  at  once  to  indi- 
vidualize itself  from  every  other  in  the  room, 


whose  eye  followed  it  witU  a  pleased  conscious- 
ness that  it  brought  sunshine  wherever  it  moved 
— dear  Katharine !  you  are  not  the  first  to  whom 
a  life's  destiny  has  thus  come  at  once ;  forcing 
the  acknowledgment  that  there  are,  in  human 
nature,  strange  and  sudden  impulses,  which, 
though  mysterious  in  their  exercise,  and  still 
more  so  in  their  causes,  are  nevertheless  reali- 
ties. 

Katharine  watched  this  young  man  for  a  long 
time.  Sometimes,  when  he  came  nearer,  she 
listened,  and  caught  a  few  tones  of  his  voice ; 
they  were  like  his  face,  calm,  thoughtful,  ex- 
pressive, and  they  went  to  Katharine's  heart  like 
the  music  of  some  dear  olden  song. 

"  What  are  you  looking  at  so  earnestly,  Kath- 
arine?" said  Hugh's  cheerful  voice,  breaking  in 
upon  the  girl's  silence. 

Katharine  had  no  reason  to  conceal  her 
thoughts,  so  she  frankly  pointed  out  the  object 
of  her  contemplation. 

"  Look  at  him,  Hugh !  Has  he  not  a  pleasant, 
thoughtful  face?" 

Hugh  could  not  see  any  such  face,  or  would 
not. 

"  There !  standing  by  the  lady  at  the  harp,  I 
have  watched  him  a  long  time,"  said  Katharine. 
"I  feel  sure  I  must  have  seen  him  somewhere 
before." 

"In  the  clouds,  very  likely,"  answered  her 
cousin,  with  a  sharpness  rare  to  his  quiet  man- 
ner, "  for  he  has  but  just  come  from  abroad.  I 
have  seen  him  here  once  before,  but  no  one,  ex- 
cept my  romantic  little  cousin,  ever  called  Lyne- 
don  handsome." 

"Lynedon — Lynedon.     Is  that  his  name?" 

"  Yes ;  and  that  is  all  I  know  about  him.  But, 
Katharine — there,  your  eyes  are  wandering  aftef 
him  again.  Why,  you  will  be  noticed  if  you 
look  at  him  so  much,  even  though  you  do  think 
him  handsome." 

"I  do  not,"  said  Katharine,  quietly;  "but  his 
face  seems  as  if  I  knew  it ;  it  is  pleasant  to  me 
to  look  at  him,  as  it  is  to  look  at  a  picture  or  a 
statue.  However,  I  will  not  do  so  if  it  is  wrong, 
or,  at  all  events,  rude.  I  do  not  know  the  world 
so  well  as  you,  dear  cousin." 

Hugh's  countenance  brightened,  and  he  said 
no  more.  Meanwhile,  Katharine  persevered  foi 
at  least  five  minutes  in  looking  in  the  direction 
exactly  opposite  to  Mr.  Lynedon.  At  last,  cast 
ing  her  eyes  in  the  mirror,  she  saw  the  reflection 
of  his  face,  as  he  stood  silent  at  the  opposite  end 
of  the  room.  That  face,  in  its  thoughtful  repose, 
revealed  to  her  the  vague  likeness  which  had  at 
once  made  it  seem  familiar  and  dear.  Mr.  Lyne- 
don strongly  resembled  the  head  of  Keats,  which 
had  been  the  girl's  dream-idol  for  so  many  months. 
As  the  fancy  struck  her  mind  Katharine's  cheek 
flushed,  and  a  strange  thrill  shot  through  her 
heart.  She  looked  at  him  again,  and  still  the 
likeness  seemed  to  deepen.  It  was  a  pleasure 
so  new — and  with  the  aid  of  that  friendly  mirror, 
surely  there  could  be  nothing  wrong  in  thus 
watching  the  living  semblance  of  her  poet.  So 
Katharine  gazed  and  gazed,  utterly  unconscious 
that  she  was  drinking  in  the  first  draught  of  that 
cup  which  is  offered  to  every  human  lip ;  to  some, 
of  honey  ;  to  others,  of  gall. 

Lynedon  still  kept  close  to  the  harp,  until  a 
lady  sat  down  to  play  and  sing.  Her  voice  was 
touching  and  beautiful,  and  its  pathos  st'llod 


10 


THE  OGILVIES. 


oven  the  noisy  murmur  around.  A  foppish,  af- 
fected young  man,  at  one  side  of  the  harp,  went 
into  ecstasies, of  rapture.  Lynedon  stood  on  the 
other  side.  His  figure,  drawn  up  to  its  utmost 
height,  and  his  arms  folded,  as  still  as  a  marble 
statue.  His  head  was  bent,  and  half  in  shadow ; 
bat  once  Katharine  thought  she  saw  the  lips 
tremble  with  deep  feeling.  She  did  not  wonder, 
for  the  tears  were  in  her  own  eyes. 

"Divine ;  enchanting !  Miss  Trevor,  you  sing 
like  an  angel,"  cried  the  young  dandy,  taking 
out  his  pocket  handkerchief. 

Lynedon  did  not  say  a  single  word,  but  offered 
his  hand  to  lead  the  musician  to  her  seat.  She 
seemed  a  shy,  timid  creature,  neither  fashion- 
able nor  beautiful.  As  they  passed,  Katharine 
heard  him  say,  in  answer  to  some  remark  of 
hers — 

"  Yes,  it  gave  me  pleasure.  It  is  a  dear,  old 
song  to  me.  I  had  a  little  sister  who  used  to 
sing  it  once :  she  had  a  sweet  voice,  very  like 
yours." 

Katharine  longed  for  an  angel's  voice,  that 
she  might  have  sung  that  song.  She  wondered 
if  his  sister  lived ;  but,  no,  there  was  a  tremu- 
lousness  in  his  tone  when  he  spoke  of  her — she 
must  be  dead.  He  was  surely  good  and  affec- 
tionate, since  he  loved  his  sister.  How  well  she 
must  have  loved  him !  Katharine  had  already 
woven  out  the  whole  romance  of  this  stranger's 
life,  and  yet  she  did  not  even  know  his  Christian 
name,  and  he  had  not  once  spoken  to  her,  or 
even  looked  at  her.  Only  some  time  after,  as 
she  was  in  the  act  of  bidding  adieu  to  Mrs. 
Lancaster,  Katharine's  flowers  fell,  and  Mr. 
Lynedon,  who  stood  beside  the  hostess,  stooped 
and  gave  them  into  the  young  girl's  hand.  It 
was  a  trifling  act  of  courtesy,  yet  he  did  it  as  he 
did  every  thing  else,  more  gracefully  than  other 
men.  But  he  would  have  done  the  same  to  anv 
woman,  old  or  young,  ugly  or  pretty.  Katha- 
rine felt  that  he  had  not  even  looked  in  her  face. 
She  experienced  no  surprise,  or  wounded  vanity, 
for  she  never  remembered  herself  at  all.  Even 
now,  at  this  faint  dawn  of  feeling,  her  thoughts 
were  alone  of  him. 

"Well,  it  has  been  a  pleasant  evening,"  said 
Mrs.  Ogilvie,  when  they  were  again  in  the  car- 
riage. "Do  you  think  so,  Hugh?" 

Hugh  did,  indeed,  for  there  was  still  the  long, 
quiet  ride  home,  with  Katharine  close  beside 
him,  ready  to  talk  over  every  thing,  as  he  had 
proposed. 

"And  you,  Katharine,  love;  have  you  liked 
your  entrance  into  society  ?"  inquired  the  mother. 

"Yes,"  said  Katharine,  gently,  but  briefly. 
She  did  not  seem  half  so  much  disposed  to  talk 
as  Hugh  expected. 

"I  asked  Mrs.  Lancaster  and  her  husband  to 
spend  a  day  with  us;  was  I  right,  Mr.  Ogilvie?" 
observed  the  wife,  deferentially. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear,  ask  whom  you  please ; 
Mrs.  Lancaster  is  a  womalDof  very  good  breed- 
ing ;  and,  besides,  to  an  intellectual  lady,  and  a 
lover  of  antiquities,  there  are  many  curious  and 
remarkable  sights  near  Summerwood  Park.  Of 
•ourse  she  will  come  ?" 

"Not  just  at  present,  as  she  has  a  friend 
staying  there,  a  Mr.  Lynedon.  I  did  not  know 
whether  you  would  like  him  to  be  included." 

"  By  all  means,  Mrs.  Ogilvie ;  I  happened  to 
have  a  <pod  deal  of  talk  with  Mr.  Paul  Lyne- 


don— a  clever,  sensible  young  man ;  has  no  con- 
ceit about  him,  not  like  the  puppies  of  the  day; 
he  is  trying  to  get  into  Parliament — admires 
Sir  Robert,  and  is  particularly  well  read  on  the 
currency  question.  By  all  means  invite  Mr. 
Paul  Lynedon. 

Katharine's  ears  drank  in  all  this.  Here  was 
new  matter  added  to  her  little  romance.  He 
was  about  to  enter  Parliament — a  noble  career; 
Katharine  was  sure  he  would  rise  to  be  a  great 
statesman — a  second  Canning.  And,  then,  his 
Christian  name  was  Paul. 

Most  young  girls  think  much  of  a  Christian 
name ;  indeed,  so  does  every  body.  We  have  all 
a  sort  of  ideal  nomenclature,  names  that  please 
us  by  their  euphony,  or  else  make  us  love  them 
for  their  associations.  Some  seem  suited  to 
peculiar  characters,  and  when  we  meet  the 
impersonations  of  them  we  are  fain  to  apply  our 
fanciful  ideal,  saying,  "  Ah !  there  a  bright- 
faced,  clear-hearted  Clara;"  or,  "this  girl  is 
surely  a  Mary,  sweet,  gentle  Mary;"  or,  "such 
an  one  is  the  very  beau-ideal  of  a  Walter,  a 
Henry,  or  an  Edmund." 

Katharine  felt  a  painful  twinge,  excusable  in 
a  romantic  damsel  of  sixteen,  when  she  found 
her  hero  was  called  Paul.  She  had  yet  to  learn 
how  dear,  how  melodious,  does  the  most  ordi- 
nary or  least  euphonious  name  become  when  it  is 
written  on  the  heart. 

"  Mr.  Paul  Lynedon  coming  to  Summerwood," 
observed  Hugh,  with  the  faintest  shade  of  annoy- 
ance perceptible  in  his  tone;  "then,  Katharine, 
you  will  have  a  splendid  opportunity  of  examin- 
ing your  handsome  hero;  ay,  and  of  talking  to 
him  too." 

"  A  man  like  Mr.  Lynedon  would  never  think 
of  talking  to  such  a  child  as  I,"  answered 
Katharine,  in  a  lower  tone.  "And,  Hugh,  I 
believe  I  told  you  before,  that  I  do  not  think  him 
handsome.  There  is  nothing  strikingly  beautiful 
in  his  features,  indeed,  I  do  not  consider  them 
half  so  good  as  yours." 

"Thank  you,  my  kindest  of  cousins;  then 
what  made  you  notice  him  so  much  ?" 

"  I  can  hardly  tell,  except  that  there  seemed 
in  his  face  something  more  than  beauty,  some- 
thing I  never  saw  before  in  any  other;  and  yet 
I  can  not  describe  what  this  something  was,  but 
it  spoke  of  mind,  and  dignity,  and  gentleness." 

"  What  a  hero,  Katharine ;  I  shall  be  quite 
jealous  soon." 

"  You  need  not,"  said  Katharine,  laying  her 
hand  on  Hugh's  arm ;  Mr.  Paul  Lynedon  is  not 
my  cousin,  my  old  playfellow,  and  friend ;  and 
if  he  were,  I  think  I  should  be  too  much  afraid 
of  him  ever  to  feel  for  him  the  same  affection 
that  I  bear  you  and  dear  Eleanor." 

Hugh  looked  joyfully  in  his  cousin's  eyes — 
they  were  calm,  and  clear.  They  did  not  droop 
or  turn  from  his  face — there  was  not  a  feeling 
in  Katharine's  heart  that  she  wished  to  hide. 

"  What  are  you  and  Katharine  talking  about  ?" 
said  Mr.  Ogilvie,  rousing  himself  from  one  of  his 
usual  taciturn  moods.  "We  can  not  hear  a 
word  on  this  side  of  the  carriage,  and  the  lamps 
are  so  dim  that  we  can  hardly  see  your  faces." 

"Never  mind,  my  dear,"  observed  Mrs. 
Ogilvie,  "  young  people  generally  like  talking 
over  a  party,  and  Hugh  and  Katharine  seem 
always  to  have  plenty  to  say  to  one  another." 
And  a  quiet  smile  passed  over  the  matron's 


THE  OGILVIES. 


f&ce,  showing  how  skilled  she  thought  herself 
in  the  womanly  acquirement  of  reading  hearts. 
And  when,  an  hour  after,  that  worthy  lady  and 
tffectionate  mother  lay  cogitating  over  the  past 
evening,  she  thought  with  satisfaction  that  her 
Katharine  had  not  seemed  dazzled  in  the  least 
by  her  first  sight  of  "the  world,'1  and  appeared 
to  care  for  the  attentions  of  no  one  save  that 
good,  kind  cousin,  Hugh,  who  would  one  day 
make  her  such  an  excellent  husband. 

While,  in  the  next  chamber,  Katharine  was 
dreaming  one  of  her  wild  fantastic  dreams, 
wherein  she  herself  was  transformed  success 
ively  into  the  heroine  of  several  of  her  DC 
romances ;  and,  somehow,  whenever  she  lookec 
into  the  face  of  the  dearly-loved  dream-hero,  it 
always  changed  to  the  same  likeness — the  deep 
clear  eyes  and  floating  hair  of  Paul  Lynedon. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turned  it  in  his 

glowing  hands, 

Every  moment  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden  sands, 
Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the 

chords  with  might, 
Smote  the  chord  of  self,  that,  trembling,  passed  in  music 

out  of  sight.  TENNYSON. 

THE  mistress  of  Summerwood  was  a  living 
homily  on  the  blessings  of  early  rising.  Every 
morning  she  took  her  place  before  the  old- 
fashioned  silver  urn  exactly  as  the  clock  struck 
eight.  She  had  done  the  same  for  some  eighteen 
years,  during  which  her  fair,  serene  countenance 
slowly  glided  into  the  staid  repose  of  a  matron 
of  fifty-two.  But  it  still  retained  its  fresh,  un- 
•wrinkled  look,  as  though  the  years  which  had 
passed  over  it  had  been  counted  by  summers 
only;  and,  certainly,  since  her  marriage,  life 
had  been  one  long  summer  to  Mrs.  Ogilvie. 

Her  husband  would  have  sooner  missed  the 
daylight  than  her  pleasant  face  from  his  break- 
fast-board ;  and,  winter  or  summer  there  could 
not  be  a  more  cheerful  sight  than  the  group 
assembled  round  the  early  meal  at  Summer- 
v/ood.  For  Mr.  Ogilvie  would  allow  "  no  non- 
sense" of  late  rising,  and  even  his  niece,  Isabella, 
was  forced  to  give  up  her  fine-lady  airs  and 
descend  at  proper  time,  with  the  young  brothers 
and  sisters,  of  whom  she  was  the  unwilling 
guardian.  The  family  circle  was  completed  by 
Hugh,  with  his  bright,  merry  "morning  face," 
Eleanor,  always  serene,  though  over  her  still 
hung  the  shadow  of  a  grief — now  some  months 
past — a  mother's  loss ;  and  Katharine,  who, 
usually  the  blithest  of  the  group,  seemed  on 
this  particular  day  rather  thoughtfully  inclined. 
Isabella  attributed  the  fact  to  "the  effects  of 
dissipation,"  and  laughed  at  her  for  being  so 
country-bred  as  to  feel  overwhelmed  with  fa- 
tigue by  but  one  party  on  the  same  night. 

"If  you  lived  the  life  that  I  do,  what  would 
Become  of  you,  Katharine  ?  You  would  be 
dead  in  six  months,  tired  as  you  look  now;." 

"I  really  do  not  feel  so,"  said  Katharine. 

"  Then  wrhy  do  you  drink  your  coffee  with 
t  such  a  sentimental  air  ?  Did  you  meet  any  of 
the  poetical  heroes,  whom  you  sometimes  talk 
about,  among  the  great  geniuses,  who,  as  Hugh 
says,  congregate  at  Mr.  Lancaster's  ?  Pray, 
tell  us  whom  you  fell  in  love  with  last  night." 


WL 

This  was  spoke  a  in  an  undertone,  and  with  a 
meaning  smile  that  made  Katharine's  cheek 
flush  with  the  quick  feeling  of  girlhood.  Her 
simplicity  took  in  earnest  all  the  careless  and 
contemptible  jests  of  the  young  lady  whose  first 
lessons  in  the  art  of  love  had  been  received 
at — that,  of  all  evil — a  fashionable  boarding- 
school. 

"I  do  not  understand  you,  Isabella,"  was 
Katharine's  hurried  reply,  while  Hugh  darted 
across  the  table  the  most  frowning  look  his 
good-tempered  face  could  assume. 

"I  think,  Bella,  you  might  let  Katharine 
eat  her  breakfast  in  peace  for  once,"  he  ex- 
claimed. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Hugh ;  don't  quite  kill 
me  for  troubling  your  dearly-beloved  cousin 
with  my  unwarrantable  curiosity,"  said  Bella, 
tittering.  "But,  as  her  breakfast  is  nearly 
ended,  I  should  like  to  hear  a  little  about  last 
night,  if  you  will  kindly  allow  the  exertion." 

Hugh  colored  with  vexation,  and  Katharine, 
resigning  herself  to  her  fate,  sighed  out,  "Well, 
Bella,  of  what  must  I  tell  ?" 

"Oh,  in  the  first  place,  the  dresses." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  but  I  did  not  notice  one. 
Indeed,  I  am  afraid  I  do  not  care  for  dress  as 
much  as  I  ought,"  continued  Katharine,  in  a 
deprecating  tone.  Her  sensitive  and  unformed 
mind  seemed  ever  most  painfully  alive  to  ridi- 
cule ;  and  this  weakness  constantly  subjected 
her  to  the  influence  of  the  worldly  Isabella. 
But  Eleanor  Ogilvie  came  to  her  aid. 

"I  am  like  you,  dear  Katharine,  I  fear;  and 
yet  I  think  that  neither  of  us  need  be  so  much 
ashamed.  Now,  I  will  relieve  Bella  and  turn 
catechist.  Did  you  see  any  of  those  celebri- 
ties, as  you  call  them,  about  whom  you  have 
been  thinking  and  wondering  so  much  all  the 
week." 

"  Hugh  pointed  out  several,  and  it  was  very 
interesting  to  watch  them,  but — " 

"  But  they  were  not  quite  what  you  expected. 
Is  it  not  so  ?" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Katharine,  doubtfully,  as  she 
took  advantage  of  a  general  move  from  table, 
and  drew  near  the  window,  Eleanor  following. 
"I  wonder  why  it  is  that  people  whose  books 
we  read  rarely  come  up  to  our  expectations — 
at  least,  not  exactly.  I  have  heard  this,,  and 
last  night  I  found  it  out  for  myself.  Why  is  it, 
Eleanor?" 

Eleanor  smiled.  There  was  something  pe- 
culiarly sweet  and  expressive  in  Eleanor  Ogil- 
vie's  smile. 

Dear  Katharine,  you  must  not  expect  me  to 
answer  your  question  which  involves  the  solv- 
ing of  such  a  problem — I,  that  am  little  older 
than  yourself,  and  have  scarcely  seen  more  of 
the  world.  But,  as  I  imagine,  the  reason  is 
this,  that  most  men  write  out  in  their  books 
their  inner  selves  —  their  deepest  and  purest 
eelings — and  we  form  our  ideal  of  them  from 
that.  When  we  meet  them  in  the  world,  we 
only  see  the  outer  self — perhaps  but  a  rough 
and.  clumsy  shell — and  it  often  takes  some  time 
and  a  great  deal  of  patience,  before  we  can  gst 
at  the  kernel." 

Bravo,  little  Nelly !"  cried  Hugh,  coming 
jehind  his  sister,  and  putting  his  two  hands  on 
ler  shoulders.  "  Why  this  is  a  speech  quite  a  la 
Wychnor — the  fellow  himself  might  have  said  it." 


12 


THE  OGILVIES. 


"  Who  is  Mr.  Wychnor  ?"  asked  Katharine. 

"Did  you  never  hear  Eleanor  speak  of  him? 
Why  Philip  Wychnor  was  her  old  playfellow, 
and  he  has  been  quite  her  oracle  since  we  met 
in  the  autumn  at  Mrs.  Breynton's,  and  we  were 
all  staying  there  together." 

"  What  is  he  like  ?"  again  inquired  Katha- 
rine. 

ki  I  think  I  can  best  answer  that,"  said  Elea- 
nor, turning  round,  with  the  faintest  rose-tint 
on  her  usually  colorless  cheek ;  "  Philip  Wych- 
nor is  a  nephew  of  Mrs.  Breynton's,  full  of 
talent,  and  as  gentle  and  good  a  boy — " 

"A  boy — why,  Nell,  he  is  more  than  twen- 
ty," interrupted  Hugh,  with  one  of  his  merriest 
laughs ;  "  only  fancy,  Katharine,  to  call  a  young 
man — a  graduate  at  Oxford — a  boy !" 

"I  mean  that  he  is  a  boy  in  gentleness,  in 
feeling,  in  simplicity ;  we  can  none  of  us  remain 
too  long  children  in  heart,  Hugh,"  said  Elea- 
nor, with  a  compqsure  which  had  its  effect  upon 
the  young  man,  who  possessed  Katharine's  grand 
qualification  to  make  a  perfect  character ;  he 
"loved  his  sister,"  and,  moreover,  he  felt  the 
influence  of  her  more  finely-constituted  mind 
and  character  to  a  degree  of  which  he  was  hard- 
ly conscious  himself. 

"  Well,  he  was  a  good  fellow,  this  Wychnor. 
though  rather  too  sentimental  and  poetical  for 
me,"  said  Hugh.  "But.  there  is  aunt  Ogilvie 
calling  for  Katharine.  What  a  pity  that  our 
nice  talk  in  the  corner  must  end." 

Katharine  bounded  away  in  answer  to  her 
mother's  summons.  One  circumstance  gave  her 
considerable  surprise,  and  yet  satisfaction,  that 
at  breakfast,  and  after,  amidst  all  the  conversa- 
tion about  Mrs.  Lancaster's  soiree,  no  one 
had  ever  mentioned  Mr.  Paul  Lynedon.  In 
Katharine's  reminiscences  of  the  evening — both 
dreaming  and  awake — this  one  image  stood  pre- 
eminent amidst  the  dim  mistiness  of  all  the  rest. 
But  this  she  felt  a  relief,  for  who  but  herself 
could  comprehend  her  dreams  ? 

"I  want  you  to  write  a  note  to  Mrs.  Lancas- 
ter, my  love,"  observed  her  mother.  '  "Your 
papa  wishes  the  Lancasters  to  visit  us  while 
Mr.  Lynedon  stops  with  them,  he  has  taken 
such  a  fancy  to  the  young  man.  Did  you  see 
him,  Katharine  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Katharine,  and  could  not  find 
another  word  for  her  life. 

Her  mother  did  not  require  one,  since  she 
was  busy  fidgeting  about  in  the  writing-desk 
for  various  adjuncts  of  an  epistolary  labor,  the 
absence  of  which  showed  how  little  versed  the 
lady  was  in  the  art  of  correspondence. 

"  Shall  I  fetch  my  own  desk,  mamma?"  in- 
quired Katharine. 

"  Ay,  do,  love ;  you  have  every  thing  you  want 
there,  and  I  am  not  used  to  writing,  especially 
to  such  clever  people  as  Mrs.  Lancaster." 

This  latter  portion  of  her  mother's  sentence 
rested  painfully  on  Katharine's  mind  during  her 
journey  to  her  own  room  and  back  again.  It 
was  indeed  a  formidable  thing  to  write  to  Mrs. 
Lancaster,  and  about  Mr.  Paul  Lynedon !  Poor 
Katharine'  felt  positively  alarmed  ;  especially 
when  she  remembered  that  all  the  care  of  her 
governess  and  masters  had  never  succeeded  in 
making  her  a  caligraphist,  and  that  she  now 
wrote  in  the  most  detestable  hand  imaginable. 
Timidly  did  she  hint  this  to  her  mother. 


"Why,  my  dear  child,  you  never  cared  io< 
your  handwriting  before,  what  make  you  so 
particular  now  ?  I  suppose  you  are  afraid  of 
Mrs.  Lancaster.  But,  never  mind,  for  I  once 
heard  her  say  that  clever  people  always  write 
badly,  and  certainly  her  own  hand  is  a  specimen 
of  this." 

Katharine  laughed,  but  she  did  not  say  a 
word  mere  of  excuse,  lest  her  mother  should 
discover  that  there  was  another  person's  opinion 
which  she  had  thought  of,  even  before  Mrs. 
Lancaster's. 

"  He  will  certainly  see  the  letter — she  will 
be  sure  to  show  it  to  him,"  said  Katharine  to 
herself,  when  she  was  left  alone  to  fulfill  her 
task.  And  the  idea  that  Mr.  Lynedon's  own 
eyes  would  rest  upon  her  letter,  or  at  least  that 
he  would  hear  it  read,  made  the  writing  and 
composition  seem  matters  of  momentous  im- 
portance. She  changed  the  sentences,  and  re- 
arranged them ;  one  said  too  much,  another  too 
little.  First,  the  invitation  appeared  too  warm, 
and  then  its  repetition  was  worded  in  a  style  so 
coldly  polite,  that  Katharine  felt  sure  a  man  of 
his  dignity  would  never  accept  it.  She  wrote 
more  copies  than  she  cared  to  count,  before  the 
final  decision  was  made.  Then,  when  in  the 
last  carefully-indited  epistle  she  came  to  his 
name — Mr.  Paul  Lynedon,  it  was  written  slow- 
ly, almost  tremulously.  She  had  said  it  to  her- 
self many  tunes,  until  it  had  grown  almost  a 
familiar  sound,  but  she  had  never  written  it  be- 
fore. It  was  a  simple  arrangement  of  simple 
letters,  and  yet,  when  she  had  completed  the 
epistle,  the  one  name  seemed  to  her  to  stand 
out  in  bold  relief  from  the  rest  of  the  page,  dis- 
tinct and  clear,  like  the  face  of  it  owner  among 
all  other  human  faces  in  that  motley  crowd. 

Let  us  travel  in  spirit,  whither  Katharine's 
thoughts  often  wandered  that  day,  and  accom- 
pany the  letter  to  its  destination.  If  in  real  life 
this  clairvoyance  existed,  how  many  of  us  would 
wish  to  employ  it.  And  with  what  result  ? 
Perhaps  to  see  lines — over  which  the  full  heart 
had  poured  itself,  or  stilled  its  beatings  in  a  vain 
effort  to  write  carelessly  of  what  it  felt  so  much 
— glanced  over  with  an  idle,  passing  notice,  and 
thrown  aside  !  Or,  perchance,  to  mark  with 
almost  equal  pain,  that  what  we  wrote  as  mere 
"  words,  words,  words"  of  custom  or  of  court- 
esy, became  to  the  receiver  a  mine  of  treasure, 
to  be  pored  over  and  reconstrued  again,  and 
again,  hopefully  or  despondingly,  with  feelings 
of  which  we  knew  not,  and  knowing  would  only 
regard  in  sorrowful  pity  that  they  should  be 
thus  cast  at  our  feet  in  vain. 

"Here  is  an  invitation,"  said  Mrs.  Lancas- 
ter, throwing  down  Katharine's  precious  note 
among  a  heap  of  others.  "It  concerns  you, 
Lynedon,  will  you  read  it?" 

"  Thank  you — presently !"  Paul  finished  his 
coffee,  and  then  took  up  the  letter.  "It  seems 
a  cordial  invite — shall  you  accept  it?" 

"If  you  are  also  inclined;  Summerwood  is  a 
pretty  place,  I  believe,  with  many  antiquities  in 
the  neighborhood." 

"  That  will  just  suit  you  then,"  said  Lynedon, 
smiling,  as  he  remembered  the  archaeological 
hobby  which  Mrs.  Lancaster  had  lately  mount, 
ed,  and  which  she  was  now  riding  to  death. 

"  Yes,  but  you  yourself  might  find  some  inter- 
ests  even  among  such  qui*>t  folk  as  the  Ogilvi»»S. 


THE  OGILVIKS. 


13 


The  old  father,  Sir  James,  is  in  his  dotage,  and 
Mr.  Ogilvie  has  considerable  influence  in  the 
county.  He  might  be  of  use  in  this  parliament- 
ary scheme  of  yours,  especially  as  he  told  me, 
in  his  own  solemn  way,  how  much  he  liked 
you." 

"  Liked  me  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  him  now. 
A  precise,  middle-aged  specimen  of  the  genus 
'country  gentleman,'  with  a  quiet  mild-looking 
lady  always  creeping  after  him.  She  was  his 
wife,  probably."  He  looked  at  the  signature, 
'"Katharine  Ogilvie,'  a  pretty  name,  very;  it  is 
hers,  I  suppose." 

"  No,  the  note  is  from  their  daughter ;  you  saw 
her  too  the  other  night,  a  little  brown-comple-x- 
ioned  girl,  who  dropped  her  flowers  and  you  gave 
them  to  her." 

"I  really  do  not  remember  the  fact,"  said 
Paul  Lynedon,  shaking  back  his  beautiful  hair ; 
"  but  I  am  quite  at  your  service,  Mrs.  Lancas- 
ter, for  this  visit." 

"  Then  it  is  agreed  upon ;  Julian,  my  love,  put 
it  down  in  my  visiting-book,  that  we  may  not 
forget."  Mr.  Lancaster  did  as  he  was  biddsn, 
and  his  wife  and  Mr.  Lynedon  went  on  with 
their  conversation,  during  which  the  latter — who 
had  a  habit  of  always  playing  with  something 
while  he  was  talking  earnestly — twisted  Katha- 
rine's note  into  every  conceivable  shape,  finally 
tearing  it  into  small  diamonds,  and  then  again 
into  triangles. 

Poor  Katharine  !  and  yet  in  the  wildness  and 
self-forgetfulness  of  her  dream,  she  might  not 
have  thought  it  an  unworthy  destiny  for  her  let- 
ter. It  had  been  torn  in  pieces  by  Paul  Lyne- 
don's  own  fingers ! 

Added  to  Mrs.  Lancaster's  acceptance,  came 
one  from  Mr.  Lynedon  himself;  a  few  courteous 
words  which  won  the  marked  approbation  of  the 
formal  Mr.  Ogilvie. 

"A. proper  gentleman-like  note.  Mr.  Lyne- 
don is,  as  I  thought,  very  superior  to  the  young 
men  of  the  present  day,"  observed  the  father. 
He  did  not  see  how  his  young  daughter's  eyes 
brightened  at  the  words.  It  was  so  pleasant  to 
hear  her  hero  praised. 

"And  read  what  Mrs.  Lancaster  says  of  him," 
observed  Mrs.  Ogilvie,  and  she  handed  the  lady's 
epistle  to  her  husband. 

Mr.  Ogilvie  looked,  shook  his  head,  and  pass- 
ed the  note  on  to  his  daughter.  "  Read  it,  Kath- 
arine, I  never  could  make  out  Mrs.  Lancaster's 
hand." 

Katharine  read  with  a  voice  wonderfully 
steady,  considering  how  her  little  heart  fluttered 
all  the  time.  "I  thank  you  for  including  my 
friend,  Mr.  Lynedon,  in  your  invitation;  it  will 
give  me  pleasure  to  introduce  to  your  circle  one 
whom  you  will,  I  trust,  esteem  as  I  do.  He  is  a 
man  whose  talents  will  doubtless  one  day  raise 
him  high  in  the  world.  He  has  the  minor  ad- 
vantages of  a  good  social  position,  and,  I  believe, 
an  excellent  heart ;  but  these  are  nothing  com- 
pared to  the  greatest  of  all — a  commanding  and 
powerful  mind." 

"Is  Mrs.  Lancaster  quite  right  there?"  said 
Eleanor,  lifting  up  her  soft,  quiet  eyes  from  her 
work.  "  She  seems  to  think  of  Mr.  Lynedon's 
intellect  alone,  and  never  regards  any  other  qual- 
ities. Now  he  may  be  a  clever  man — " 

"He  may  be — he  is!"  crieJ  Katharine,  ener- 
getically. "  He  will  be  the  greatest  man  of  the 


age."  And  then,  seeing  that,  as  usual,  her  sud- 
den btust  of  enthusiasm  met  with  but  a  freezing 
reception,  she  grew  hot  and  cold,  and  heartily 
wished  she  could  run  away. 

"Really  Katharine,  that  is  a  very  positive 
declaration  to  be  made  by  a  child  like  you,"  said 
her  father ;  "  and,  beside,  what  opportunity  can 
you  have  had  of  judging  of  Mr.  Paul  Lynedon's 
intellect.  Did  he  speak  to  you?" 

"  Oh,  no !  but  I  heard  him  talk  to  others;  that 
was  much  better  than  if  he  had  spoken  to  me.  I 
liked  very  much  to  listen  to  him;  I  did  not  know 
it  was  wrong." 

"By  no  means,  my  love,"  said  Mrs.  Ogilvie. 
"  A  taste  for  refined  conversation  is  always  be- 
coming in  a  lady,  and  when  you  grow  up,  and 
are  aware  of  the  position  you  hold  in  the  world, 
I  hope  you  will  always  have  clever  men  and 
women  in  your  society.  But  still,  as  a  child,  you 
should  not  express  quite  so  decided  an  opinion — 
at  least  not  in  public.  Here,  with  only  your 
papa,  myself,  and  Eleanor,  it  signifies  little'." 

Katharine,  in  the  depth  of  her  heart,  did  not 
at  all  see  that  an  expression  of  feeling  allowable 
in  private,  must  not  be  countenanced  or  given 
way  to  in  public.  But  she  said  nothing.  Her 
life  was  a  continual  exercise  of  such  acts  of  self- 
suppression,  for  she  always  found  that  arguing  on 
the  subject  did  not  avail  in  the  slightest  degree, 
as  her  father  invariably  repeated  the  same  re- 
marks in  a  tone  gradually  more  and  more  au- 
thoritative. The  girl's  only  chance  of  eliciting 
what  was  good  and  true,  lay  in  pondering  over 
every  thing  she  saw  and  heard  in  the  depths  of 
her  own  heart,  and  thus  struggling  toward  a 
conclusion.  But,  with  the  wisest  of  us,  this  in- 
ternal course  of  education 'is  often  at  first  grop- 
ing through  dark  ways.  Our  minds,  not  only  in 
their  powers  of  acquiring  knowledge,  but  their 
perceptive  and  reflective  faculties,  need  a  guid- 
ing hand  as  well  as  our  bodies.  We  must  be 
led  awhile,  before  we  have  strength  to  walk 
alone. 

Katharine  Ogilvie  had  no  one  to  guide  these 
first  tottering  struggles  of  a  mind  and  heart  su- 
perior to  those  of  most  women.  She  was  ever 
looking  toward  the  light,  and  in  vain.  Every 
glimmering  taper  she  mistook  for  the  glorious 
fullness  of  day.  Perhaps  it  was  this  intense 
yearning  for  something  whereon  to  rest  her  soul, 
in  addition  to  her  purely  womanly  inclination 
toward  hero-worship,  that  made  her  cling  with 
such  sudden  vehemence  to  that  ideal  which  she 
thought  she  saw  in  Paul  Lynedon.  It  was  not 
that,  according  to  the  creed  of  young  misses  of 
her  age,  she  "fell  in  love."  Katharine  would 
have  started  with  instinctive  delicacy  had  the 
amusing  expression  met  her  ear,  or  the  idea  en- 
tered her  mind.  Love  had  as  yet  little  place  in 
her  world — except  as  something  to  come  one  day 
— a  vague  sentiment  that  was  full  of  poetry,  and 
carried  with  it  a  mysterious  charm.  Her  feeling 
toward  Paul  Lynedon  was  something  akin  to 
what  she  experienced  toward  her  pet  heroes  in 
romances,  or  her  favorite  poets.  An  appreciat- 
ive worship,  drawn  forth  by  all  that  was  in  them 
of  noble  and  beautiful — 

"  A  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow." 

Of  "falling  in  love"  with  (hateful  terms),  or  of 

marrying  Paul  Lynedon,  she  no  more  thought 

than  of  uniting  herself  in  affectionate  earthly 


THE  OGILVIES. 


ties  to  an  angel  who  guided  sor>.«  "  bright  par- 
ticular star." 

Yet  in  spite  of  all  this  child-like  unconscious- 
ness of  the  real  nature  of  the  life-phase  which 
was  opening  upon  her,  it  was  strange  how  much 
this  vague  interest  in  her  hero  grew  during  the 
few  days  that  intervened  between  the  acceptance 
of  the  invitation  and  its  fulfillment.  But  she  kept 
her  thoughts  closely  locked  up  in  her  own  heart, 
which,  indeed,  was  a  circumstance  neither  strange 
nor  new. 

When,  a  few  days  after,  the  departure  of  the 
Worsley  tribe  left  Katharine  alone  with  her  two 
cousins,  Hugh  and  Eleanor,  she  felt  the  restraint 
a  little  removed.  But  still,  though  she  loved 
them  both  sincerely,  neither  they  nor  any  human 
being  had  ever  passed  the  circle  of  the  young 
girl's  inner  world.  Hugh  could  not — it  was  be- 
yond his  power;  and  Eleanor,  detained  for  years 
by  the  sick  couch  of  her  lost  mother,  had  scarcely 
visited  Summerwood.  Thus  she  had  never  won 
from  Katharine's  shy  and  reserved  disposition 
that  friendship  and  confidence  which  no  mere 
ties  of  kindred  can  acquire. 

Therefore  no  hand  had  yet  lifted  more  than 
the  outer  Ibid  of  this  young  heart,  trembling, 
bursting,  and  thrilling  with  its  full,  rich,  pas- 
sionate life,  and  ready,  at  the  first  sun-gleam,  to 
pour  forth,  rose-like,  its  whole  awakened  being, 
in  a  flood  of  perfume,  and  beauty,  and  love. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Like  to  a  good  old  age  feleased  from  care, 

Journeying  in  long  serenity  away, 

In  such  a  bright,  late  quiet,  would  that  I 

Might  wear  out  life  like  thee,  midst  bowers  and  brooks, 

And,  dearer  yet,  the  sunshine  of  kind  looks 

And  murmur  of  kind  voices  ever  nigh. 

BRYANT. 

Children  ought  to  consider  themselves  in  the  house  of 
their  father  as  in  a  temple  where  nature  has  placed 
them,  and  of  which  she  has  made  them  the  priests  and 
the  ministers,  that  they  might  continually  employ  them- 
selves in  the  worship  of  those  deities  who  gave  them 
being.  HIKROCLKS. 

MRS.  LANCASTER'S  expected  three  days'  visit 
necessitated  considerable  preparation  within  the 
quiet  precincts  of  Summerwood,  and  Katharine 
was  deputed  to  stay  as  much  as  possible  by  her 
grandfather's  side,  in  order  to  amuse  him,  and 
keep  from  him  the  knowledge  of  any  domestic 
revolutions.  This  was  rather  pleasant  to  the 
young  girl  than  otherwise,  for  she  was  a  great 
favorite  with  Sir  James,  and  returned  his  affec- 
tion by  a  watchful  love,  above  that  of  most  pet 
grandchildren.  Besides,  the  office  gave  her 
more  opportunities  of  indulging  in  those  fits  of 
dreaminess,  which  now  more  than  ever  became 
her  delight. 

Every  morning  Hugh  looked  in  upon  his  grand- 
father's study ;  it  was  called  so  still,  though  now 
thi»  scene  of  youthful  labor  had  been  transformed 
into  the  quiet,  luxurious  asylum  of  feeble  old  age. 
Hugh,  as  he  came  with  his  guns  or  his  fishing- 
rods,  had  often  glanced  half-con temptuously  at 
the  various  oddities  which  decorated  the  cham- 
ber of  the  old  politician;  ponderous  tomes,  in 
century -old  bindings ;  dusty  files  of  newspapers, 
which  chronicled  the  speeches  of  Pitt,  Fox,  and 
Burke,  possibly  with  the  announcement  that  the 


orator  was  "  left  speaking."  And  so  he  contin- 
ued to  speak  in  the  mind  and  memory  of  Si? 
James  Ogilvie,  who  thus,  by  relics  so  carefully 
preserved,  was  enabled  to  blend  the  past  and  the 
present.  Every  morning,  when  he  had  listlessly 
heard  the  last  night's  speeches  in  the  Times,  list- 
ening perhaps  more  to  the  echoes  of  his  pet 
grand-daughter's  young  voice  than  to  the  elo- 
quence of  Stanley,  Peel,  or  D'Israeli ;  he  made 
Katherine  turn  over  the  old  file  of  newspapers, 
and  read  the  daily  chronicle  of  fifty  years  ago. 
Thus  events,  which  had  grown  dim  even  in  his- 
torical recollection,  acquired  the  freshness  of 
yesterday,  and  great  men,  sharing  in  the  resus- 
citation, spoke  not  from  their  tombs,  but  from 
their  old  haunts  in  palace  and  senate.  And  to 
the  old  man — the  last  relic  of  a  departed  age—- 
this past  was  a  reality,  the  stirring,  teeming 
present,  a  mere  shadow,  less  than  a  dream. 

Katharine  never  laughed  at  these  vagaries ; 
they  were  to  her  a  something  strangely  sacred, 
and  her  fanciful  mind  cast  a  poetry  over  all. 

"  Still  busy  with  those  yellow  old  pamphlets," 
said  Hugh,  putting  in  his  head.  A  bright  cheer- 
ful face  it  was,  glowing  with  health  and  good- 
temper,  with  a  fur  cap  sitting  jauntily  on  the 
thick  brown  curls.  "  Katharine !  will  you  never 
have  done  these  readings? — at  Warren  Hast- 
ings still,  I  see." 

Katharine  knitted  her  graceful  brows,  and 
laid  her  finger  on  her  lips,  as  a  sign  to  stop  her 
cousin's  thoughtless  speech.  She  looked  much 
prettier  in  her  high,  close  morning -dress  than  in 
the  ball  costume  she  wore  when  first  described. 
The  morning  sun,  slanting  on  her  rich  black 
hair,  gave  it  a  warm  tinge,  while  her  features, 
thrown  into  shadow,  looked  delicately  perfect  in 
outline.  She  sat  on  a  footstool,  leaning  against 
her  grandfather's  arm-chair,  with  pamphlets 
and  papers  all  scattered  around.  Sir  James,  a 
little,  spare,  withered  old  man,  whose  sole  rem- 
nant of  life  seemed  to  exist  in  his  bright  restless 
eyes,  leaned  back  in  abstraction  so  perfect,  that 
he  only  noticed  Hugh's  entrance  by  the  cessa- 
tion of  the  reading. 

"  Go  on,  Katharine,"  he  said,  in  the  queru- 
lous tone  of  extreme  old  age ;  "  why  did  you 
stop  in  the  middle  of  that  fine  sentence  of  Mr. 
Burke's?" 

"  Hugh  has  just  come  in  to  say  good-morning, 
dear  grandfather." 

"  Hugh — what,  Sir  Hugh  Abercrombie  ! — I 
am  really  honored,"  said  the  old  man,  still 
wandering  to.  the  past. 

Hugh  could  not  help  laughing ;  at  which  Sir 
James  turned  sharply  round,  and,  as  he  recog- 
nized his  grandson,  his  keen,  glittering  eyes  wore 
an  expression  of  annoyance. 

. "  You  are  exceedingly  rude,  sir !  Go  away, 
and  do  not  interrupt  us  again." 

"Very  well,  grandfather,"  answered  Hugh, 
good-humoredly.  "I  only  came  to  say  how-d'ye- 
do  to  you,  and  to  have  a  word  with  my  little 
cousin  here.  Katharine,"  he  continued,  lower- 
ing his  voice,  "  I  met  your  mamma  on  the  stairs, 
and  she  desired  me  to  say  that  you  must  try  and 
make  Sir  James  understand  about  these  visitors, 
the  Lancasters — you  know  they  come  to-mor- 
row;"  and  Hugh's  face  grew  cloudy,  while 
Katharine's  brightened  considerably. 

"  My  aunt  has  told  him  already,  but  he  did 
not  seem  to  make  it  out  clearly,  and  was  rathe* 


THE  OG1LVIES. 


15 


cross ;  but  you  can  persuade  your  grandfather 
to  any  thing." 

"I  don't  wonder  at  it,"  muttered  Hugh,  look- 
ing fondly  in  her  face  as  she  stood  in  the  window, 
whither  he  had  drawn  her  aside. 

"  Very  well,  Hugh ;  and  now  run  away ;  and 
good  success  to  your  skates,  which  I  see  is  to  be 
your  amuse ment; to-day." 

"But,  Katharine,  I  shall  be  so  dull  alone. 
Here  you  stay  with  Sir  James,  and  Eleanor  is 
busy ;  will  nobody  come  and  see  me  skate  this 
fine  morning  ?" 

"How  vain  you  are,  cousin  Hugh,"  laughed 
Katharine.  "But  it  will  soon  be  grandpapa's 
lunch-time,  and  then  I  shall  be  at  liberty,  and 
will  come  to  the  pond.  So  good-by  for  a  little." 

"Good-by,  and  thank  you,  dear  Katharine." 
And,  as  Hugh  departed,  his  cousin  heard  him 
whistling  all  the  way  down  the  staircase,  "  My 
love  she's  but  a  lassie  yet,"  his  favorite  tune. 

"How  tiresome  that  boy  is,"  said  the  old 
man.  Katharine  did  not  answer,  but  again  took 
her  place,  and  began  to  read.  Sir  James  tried 
to  compose  himself  to  listen,  but  the  thread  was 
broken,  and  would  not  reunite.  Besides,  the  in- 
terruption had  made  Katharine's  own  thoughts 
wander,  and  she  read  on  mechanically,  so  that 
even  her  voice  took  a  monotonous  tone.  Her 
grandfather  nodded  over  the  very  exordium  of 
Warren  Hastings'  defense,  and  at  last  pronounced 
that  it  seemed  not  quite  so  interesting  as  it  was 
at  first;  so  he  thought  they  had  read  enough 
for  to-day.  Katharine  felt  really  glad ;  she  put 
by  all  the  books  and  papers  with  alacrity,  and 
took  her  place  again  at  her  grandfather's  feet. 

Now  was  the  time  for  bringing  out  the  sub- 
ject committed  to  her  care.  There  could  hardly 
be  a  more  favorable  moment,  for  she  had  got 
fast  hold  of  her  grandfather's  thin,  yellow,  with- 
ered fingers,  and  was  playing  with  the  magnifi- 
cent rings  which  still  daily  adorned  them.  Noth- 
ing contributed  so  much  to  the  old  baronet's 
good-humor  as  to  have  his  rings  admired,  and 
he  began  to  tell  Katharine,  for  the  hundredth 
time,  how  one  had  been  a  bequest  of  Lord  Chat- 
ham's, when  he,  Sir  James,  was  quite  a  boy; 
and  how  another,  a  magnificent  diamond,  had 
been  placed  on  his  finger  by  Frederick,  Prince 
of  Wales,  with  his  own  royal  and  friendly 
hand.  The  young  girl  listened  patiently,  and 
with  the  interest  that  affection  always  taught 
her  to  assume.  Then  taking  advantage  of  a 
pause,  she  observed — 

"  I  think,  grandpapa,  you,  who  are  so  fond  of 
Antique  rings,  will  like  to  see  one  that  Mrs.  Lan- 
caster wears.  I  will  ask  her  to  show  it  you 
when  she  comes  to-morrow." 

"  Who  comes  to-morrow,  child  ?  Who  is  Mrs. 
Lancaster?" 

"  A  very  clever,  nice  woman.  Don't  you  re- 
member that  mamma  invited  her  to  spend  a  few 
days  here — she,  and  her  husband,  and  a  friend, 
Mr.  Lynedon." 

"  Lynedon — Lynedon.  Ah  !  I  remember  him 
well.  Mr. — no,  he  was  afterward  made  Vis- 
count Lynedon,  of  Lynedon.  A  clever  speaker 
— a  perfect  gentleman.  He  and  I  were  both 
presented  at  the  king's  first  levee.  I  shall  be 
delighted  to  see  Lord  Lynedon." 

"I  do  not  think  this  is  the  gentleman  you 
mean,  grandpapa,"  said  Katharine,  meekly,  while 
the  faintest  shadow  of  a  smile  hovered  over  her 


lips.  "  He  is  not  viscount,  only  Mr.  Lynedon— 
Paul  Lynedon ;  but  he  may  be  related  to  vour 
old  friend." 

"Ah,  yes,  yes— just  so,"  repeated  Sir  James, 
his  look  of  disappointment  brightening  into  one 
of  content.  "  Of  course  he  is !  Let  me  see  : 
the  Lynedons  were  a  large  family.  There  was 
a  second  brother,  and  his  name  was  a  Scripture 
one — Philip,  or  Stephen,  or  Paul.  Yes,  yes  !  it 
must  be  Paul,  and  this  is  he.  Right,  Kath- 
arine." 

Katharine  hardly  knew  what  to  answer. 

"1  shall  be  delighted — honored,  to  welcome 
Mr.  Paul  Lynedon  at  Summerwood,"  continued 
the  old  man.  "I  well  remember  Lord  Lyne- 
don— a  fine,  tall,  noble-looking  man.  My  Lord 
Chesterfield  was  scarcely  more  courtly,  and  not 
half  so  handsome.  I  wonder  if  his  brother  is 
like  him.  Describe  Mr.  Paul  Lynedon,  Kath- 
arine." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  a  little  mistaken,  dear 
grandpapa,"  said  the  girl,  caressingly.  "This 
Mr.  Lynedon  is  quite  a  young  man,  while  your 
friend  must  be — " 

"Eh,  eh,  Katharine;  what  are  you  saying?" 
sharply  asked  Sir  James.  "  Why,  I  am  not  so 
very  old,  am  I  ?  Let  me  see  :  it  is  since  then 
only  twenty — forty — fifty  years ;  ah,  fifty  years, 
fifty  years,"  repeated  he,  counting  on  his  trem- 
bling fingers.  "Yes,  child,  you  are  right,  it 
can  not  be  the  same ;  he  must  have  been  dead 
long  ago.  I  was  a  youth  then,  and  he  a  man 
of  forty.  Yes,  yes!  all  are  gone;  there  is  no- 
body  left  but  me ;"  and  the  old  man  fell  back 
in  his  chair,  with  deep  sadness  overshadowing 
his  face. 

Katharine  leaned  her  rosy  cheek  against  the 
withered  and  wrinkled  one  of  her  grandfather, 
and  said,  gently,  "Dear  grandpapa,  don't  talk 
so,  when  you  know  we  all  love  you.  And 
though  this  gentleman  is  not  the  friend  you 
knew,  I  am  sure  you  will  like  him  very  much. 
Papa  does  ;  and  you  know  he  may  be  one  of  the 
Lynedons  after  all,  and  able  to  talk  to  you  about 
your  old  friends." 

"  Ah,  well,  little  Katharine,  you  would  almost 
make  amends  for  my  growing  old.  I  would  not 
have  had  you  here  otherwise ;  and  it  is  worth 
being  eighty  years  of  age  to  find  oneself  grand- 
father to  a  little  coaxing,  loving,  smiling  Kate." 

'The  old  man  laughed,  but  there  were  tears 
in  his  eyes ;  and  Katharine  hastened  to  beguile 
them  away  by  all  the  playful  wiles  of  which  she 
was  mistress.  By  the  time  the  arrival  of  lunch 
set  her  free  from  her  loving  attendance,  all  Sir 
James's  equanimity  was  restored.  He  even  re- 
membered that  he  had  been  rather  hasty  toward 
Hugh,  and  sent  a  message  intended  to  be  pro- 
pitiatory, challenging  his  grandson  to  an  hour's 
backgammon  in  the  study  after  dinner.  More- 
over, he  made  many  inquiries  concerning 'the 
way  in  which  Katharine  intended  to  pass  the 
rest  of  the  day,  and  learning  that  she  was  going 
to  watch  Hugh's  skating,  he  delayed  her  for  full 
five  minutes,  with  a  circumstantial ^ account  of 
the  fair  that  was  held  on  the  Thames,  when  it 
wa»  frozen  over  in  the  year . 

''And,  grandpapa,"  whispered  Katharine, 
when  she  had  listened  patiently  to  all,  "you  will 
think  of  the  visitors  coming  to-morrow,  and  bo 
sure  to  like  Mr.  Paul  Lynedon." 

"  Mr.  Paul  Lynedon  1     Oh,  I  remember  now," 


16 


THE  OGILV1ES. 


answered  the  old  man,  making  an  effort  to  col- 
lect his  wandering  ideas.  "  Yes,  yes — the  vis- 
count's son.  Of  course,  Katharine,  I  shall  be 
delighted  to  see  him.  You  must  not  forget  to 
tell  him  so." 

Katharine  made  no  attempt  to  explain  the 
matter  further,  satisfied  that  her  grandfather's 
mind  was  properly  inclined  to  courtesy  and 
kindly  feeling.  She  went  away  perfectly  con- 
tent with  the  duty  so  well  fulfilled,  not  reflecting 
that  in  their  conversation  she  had  entirely  for- 
gotten all  that  was  to  have  been  said  about  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Lancaster. 


CHAPTER  V. 

In  thee 

Is  nothing  sudden,  nothing  single ; 
Like  two  streams  of  incense  free 
From  one  censer,  in  one  shrine 
Thought  and  motion  mingle 


They  were  modulated  so 

To  an  unheard  melody 
Which  lives  about  thee,  and  n,  sweep 

Of  richest  pauses,  evermore 
Drawn  from  each  other,  mello  .v,  deep, 

— Who  may  express  thee,  Eleanore  1 

TENNYSON. 

THOUGH  Katharine  had  been  busy  all  the 
morninop  aiding  her  mother  in  the  various  cares 
whJch  t^re  the.  half-necessary,  half- voluntary 
duty  o'  the  mistress  of  Summerwood  Park,  still, 
when  the  time  approached  for  the  arrival  of  the 
guests,  she  did  not  feel  inclined  to  rest.  Hugh 
had  taken  himself  off  for  the  day  on  a  shooting 
excursion ;  Eleanor  was  writing,  reading,  or 
practicing  in  her  own  room ;  and  when  all  was 
prepared  for  the  visitors,  Katharine  had  no  re- 
source but  to  wander  about  the  house.  She  did 
so,  roaming  from  room  to  room  with  a  vague 
restlessness  that  would  not  pass  away  ;  every 
now  and  then  she  stood  at  the  hall  window  and 
listened  for  the  sound  of  carriage-wheels ;  then 
she  pondered  and  speculated  about  the  Lancas- 
ters,  ransacking  her  memory  for  all  that  she  had 
ever  heard  about  them,  wondering  if  Mrs.  Lan- 
caster would  seem  as  agreeable  as  at  first ;  and 
then,  between  her  and  the  lady,  rose  the  face 
of  Paul  Lynedon,  and  the  former  vision  grew 
dim  in  Katharine's  mind. 

The  quick-coming  twilight  of  winter  drew 
nigh,  and  the  guests  had  not  arrived.  The  girl's 

Sleasurable  anticipations  faded  a  little,  and  she 
jit  vexed  at  herself  for  having  wasted  so  much 
time  in  thinking  about  these  new  acquaintances. 
Conscience-smitten  for  the  little  notice  she  had 
taken  of  her  cousin  during  that  day,  she  pro- 
ceeded to  Eleanor's  room,  and  finding  it  empty, 
followed  her  into  the  garden. 

Eleanor  sat  quietly  in  the  conservatory,  her 
favorite  place  of  study.  A  book  lay  on  her  lap, 
but  she  was  hardly  reading ;  her  eyes  wandered 
as  her  thoughts  did.  Eleanor,  like  her  cousin, 
was  still  at  that  period  of  life  when  dreaming  is 
so  pleasant.  Alas !  that  there  should  come  a 
time  when  we  dare  not  dream. 

There  can  hardly  be  a  better  opportunity 
than  the  present  to  sketch  the  personal  likeness 
of  Eleanor  Ogilvie.  It  shall  not  be  done  in  rose- 
colors,  garnished  with  similes  taken  from  flowers, 
shells,  sky,  earth,  and  air,  for  true  beauty  is  in- 
dependent of  all  these.  Eleanor  had  no  angel's 


face,  only  a  woman's;  sweet,  fair,  and. mild  bt 
a  woman's  should  be.  Her  beautiful  soul  shone 
through  it,  and  therefore  it  became  itsek/beautiful ; 
not  that  it  was  without  a  certain  grace  of  for  m,  but 
still  that  was  subservient  to  the  higher  quality  of 
expression,  without  which,  features  as  perfect  as 
the  sculptor's  chisel  can  create,  are  mere  soul- 
less and  stony  than  the  marble  itself.  Eleanor's 
countenance  was  not  so  much  removed  from  the 
ordinary  in  humanity,  but  that  it  would  have 
been  passed  over  as  merely  "rather  pretty," 
except  for  the  inexpressible  charm  which  each 
varying  emotion  of  her  mind  threw  over  it. 
After  all,  this  is  the  truest  beauty ;  not  that 
which  suddenly  dazzles  and  fascinates,  but  that 
which  steals  upon  us  insensibly.  Let  each  of 
us  call  up  to  memory  the  faces  that  have  been 
most  pleasant  to  us — those  that  we  have  loved 
best  to  look  upon,  that  now  rise  most  vividly 
before  us  in  solitude,  and  oftenest  haunt  our 
slumbers,  and  we  shall  usually  find  them  not  the 
most  perfect  in  form,  but  the  sweetest  in  ex- 
pression. Yet  silence  on  this  generalizing !  It 
is  idle.  Every  human  mind  has  its  own  ideal  of 
beauty,  and  almost  always  this  ideal  is  based 
upon  some  individual  reality ;  therefore  we  will 
leave  the  peculiarities  of  Eleanor  Ogilvie's  face 
in  that  dim  mystery  out  of  which  each  can  form 
his  own  dream,  merely  saying  that  the  fountain 
into  which  Eve  looked  did  not  reflect  a  sweeter 
or  more  womanly  image. 

Katharine,  even,  was  struck  by  it.  The  con- 
trast  was  great  between  her  own  restless  move- 
ments and  flushed  cheek,  and  her  cousin's  perfect 
quietude.  "  Why.  Eleanor,  how  still  you  are 
here,  when  all  the  house  is  full  of  hurry  and  ex- 
pectation ?  You  seem  almost  to  have  forgotten 
that  the  Lancasters  are  coming?" 

"  Oh,  no ;  for  you  see  I  have  already  dressed 
for  dinner." 

"  So  you  have ;  and  how  well  you  look,  with 
your  high  black  dress,  and  your  smooth  fair 
hair.  You  are  quite  a  picture,"  said  Katharine, 
removing  her  cousin's  fur  wrappings,  and  look- 
ing at  her  with  some  admiration.  Katharine's 
intense  appreciation  of  the  beautiful  was  often 
almost  child-like  in  its  demonstration.  "  I  won- 
der what  Mr.  Lyne — that  is,  Mrs.  Lancaster — 
will  think  of  you?" 

"You  forget,  Katharine,  that  I  am  not  a 
stranger ;  she  has  seen  me  before.  Hugh  and 
I  spent  one  evening  with  her  when  we  were  in 
town  last  year." 

"  And  how  did  you  like  her  ? — and  is  not  her 
house  the  most  charming  place  in  the  world  ?" 
cried  Katharine. 

"That  is  rather  an  extreme  declaration  to 
make ;  and  your  question  is  one  that  can  hardly 
be  answered  justly  upon  the  little  acquaintance 
I  have  had  with  the  lady.  But  she  seemed 


rather  hesitatingly,  "was  he  there?" 

Eleanor  could  hardly  help  smiling.     "  Is  Mr. 

Paul  Lynedon,  then,  the  only  agreeable  person 

in  the  world  ?     Well,  I  am  not  quite  sure,  but  I 

believe  that  he  was  of  the  party." 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  us  so  the  other  day  ?" 
"I  really  quite  forgot  it  at  the  time." 
Amazing,  thought  Katharine,  that  she  shoulu 

not  be  quite  certain  whether  she  had  met  Pan' 


TliL  OGILVIES. 


17 


Lynedon,  or,  having  met  him,  should  positively 
forget  the  fact.  In  her  own  mind,  Katharine 
set  down  her  cousin  as  a  girl  of  very  little  dis- 
crimination. How  could  any  one  overlook  Paul 
Lynedon.  But  she  did  not  pursue  the  conversa- 
tion, for  Eleanor,  closing  her  book,  prepared  to 
return  to  the  house. 

"  Let  us  take  one  turn  before  vr  e  go  in,"  said 
Eleanor.  "There  will  be  plenty  of  time,  for 
now  the  Lancasters  will  probably  not  be  here 
until  dinner ;  and,  Katharine,  tell  me  what  you 
have  been  doing  all  day?" 

"  Following  mamma,  and  delivering  messages 
*o  cook  and  housemaids,  until  my  poor  brain  is 
quite  bewildered,"  said  Katharine.  "I  never 
would  take  an  interest  in  such  things;  I  wish 
mamma  would  leave  me  alone,  and  not  try  to 
make  a  woman  of  me.  I  had  much  rather  be 
with  grandpapa,  and  hear  him  talk  about  public 
matters,  and  read  the  speeches  in  the  newspaper. 
Eleanor,  I  was  never  born  for  this  dull,  quiet 
life;  I  want  to  do  something — to  be  something." 

"To  be  what,  dear  Katharine?"  said  Elea- 
nor, to  whom  this  confidence  was  new;  but  it 
burst  from  her  cousin's  lips  under  shelter  of  the 
twilight,  and  in  consequence  of  the  restlessness 
of  her  mind. 

"I  hardly  know  what,"  she  answered;  "but 
I  think  I  should  like  to  be  in  Mrs.  Lancaster's 
position — clever,  with  plenty  of  society,  able  to 
write,  speak,  and  think,  just  as  I  liked;  quite 
independent  of  every  body." 

"  I  do  not  think  there  is,  or  was,  any  individ- 
ual in  this  world — certainly  no  woman — of  whom 
one  could  say  that ;  nay,  even  were  it  possible, 
I  doubt  if  such  a  life  would  be  a  happy  one ;  and 
what  is  still  more,  if  it  would  be  usetul  and  full 
of  good  to  others,  which  is  the  highest  happiness 
of  all." 

"  Eleanor,"  said  Katherine,  looking  fixedly 
in  her  face,  "you  reason  where  I  only  feel." 

"Do  you  think  I  never  feel,  dear?"  answered 
Eleanor,  while  her  own  peculiar  moonlight 
smile  cast  a  grave  sweetness  over  her  face. 
li  But  we  will  talk  of  these  things  another  time. 
I  am  so  glad  we  have  begun  to  talk  of  them.  Those 
are  rarely  very  close  friends  who  keep  shut-up 
corners  in  their  hearts.  You  must  let  me  peep 
into  a  few  of  yours,  by-and-by,  my  little  cou- 
sin." 

"  Suppose  you  find  nothing  but  cobwebs  and 
dust  there?"  said  Katharine,  laughing. 

"I  will  sweep  them  all  away  with  a  little 
broom  I  keep  by  me  for  the  purpose,"  returned 
Eleanor,  in  the  same  strain. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  It  is  made  of  a  flowering  plant,  that  grows 
in  every  quiet  dell  throughout  the  world,  and 
which  you  may  often  find  when  you  least  look 
for  it.  It  is  gathered  in  the  poor  sunshine  of 
hope,  and  tied  together  with  a  ground-creeper, 
called  patience ;  which,  though  as  slender  as  a 
thread,  binds  all  together  with  the  strength  of 
an  iron  chain.  I  would  engage  to  brighten  up 
the  most  unsightly  heart-chambers  with  this 
broom  of  mine.  Now,  \vhat  is  it  made  of?" 

"I  guess,  dear  Nelly,  I  guess,"  cried  Kath- 
arine, clapping  her  hands  with  that  sudden, 
childlike  ebullition  of  pleasure  which  was  natural 
to  her ;  and,  both  laughing  merrily,  with  &  bright- 
ness in  their  eyes,  and  a  glow  on  their  cheeks, 
rhe  two  girls  entered  the  open  hall-door,  bonnets 
B 


in  hand,  and  shawls  carelessly  dangling,  they 
passed  into  the  drawing-room. 

There,  talking  to  Mr.  Ogilvie,  and  having 
evidently  just  arrived,  stood  the  Lancasters  ana 
Mr.  Paul  Lynedon  I 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A  woman's  love  is  essentially  lonely,  and  spiritual  m 
its  nature.  It  is  the  heathenism  of  the  heart :  she  hag 
herself  created  the  glory  and  beauty  with  which  the  idol 
of  her  altar  stands  invested.  L.  E.  L. 

THERE  was  no  retreat  for  Katharine  —  no 
rescue  from  the  suddenness  of  this  first  inter- 
view, which,  when  in  prospective,  she  had  viewed 
in  every  phase  of  probability,  fancying  all  she 
should  do  and  say,  and  all  they  might  do  and  say, 
in  a  mental  rehearsal,  which  she  supposed  in- 
cluded every  possible  chance.  But  the  moment- 
ous event  had  presented  itself  in  a  light  quite 
unforeseen,  and  Katharine's  only  resource  was 
to  shrink  behind  her  cousin  as  much  as  possible. 
Eleanor  advanced,  in  her  usual  composed  man- 
ner, to  Mrs.  Lancaster. 

"My  dear  Miss  Ogilvie,  I  am  delighted  to 
see  you,"  said  the  lady,  with  her  customary 
demonstration  of  cordiality — at  least,  the  amount 
of  it  which  was  consistent  with  gracefulness  of 
deportment.  "Julian,  my  love,  here  is  your 
young  favorite.  Mr.  Lynedon,  allow  me — " 

"  Miss  Katharine  Ogilvie,  I  believe,"  said 
Paul  Lynedon,  bowing  over  Eleanor's  hand, 
and  noticing,  with  his  usual  quick  appreciation 
of  female  beauty,  her  sweet,  expressive  face. 

"No,  no;  I  really  beg  pardon,"  cried  Mrs. 
Lancaster,  as  Katharine's  shrinking,  blushing 
countenance  met  her  eye.  "This  is  the  real 
fair  one,  the  right  Katharine.  I  must  apologize 
for  my  short  sight.  My  dearest  Miss  Ogilvie," 
taking  Katharine's  hand,  "allow  me  to  thank 
you  for  your  charming  note,  and  to  present  to 
you  my  friend  Mr.  Lynedon." 

Paul  Lynedon  was  a  perfect  gentleman.  No 
passing  error  ever  altered  his  composure  or . 
courtesy.  His  bend  was  as  graceful  over  Kath- 
arine's timidly-offered  hand  as  it  had  been  over 
her  cousin's.  His  acknowledgments,  addressed 
to  the  shy,  awkward  girl,  were  exactly  as  cour- 
teous as  those  of  which  Eleanor  had  been  the 
recipient.  Yet  in  this  Paul  Lynedon  was  not 
insincere.  The  polish  of  his  manners  originated 
in  the  only  quality  which  makes  a  true  gentle- 
man, and  which  no  formal,  Chesterfield-like 
education  can  bestow — a  natural  refinement  in 
himself,  and  an  instinctive  wish  to  give  pleasure 
to  others.  This  true  urbanity  never  fails  in  its 
results ;  nor  was  it  unsuccessful  now.  In  a  few 
moments,  Katharine  became  sufficiently  reas- 
sured to  lift  her  eyes  from  the  carpet  to  Paul 
Lynedon's  face.  A  little  different  was  the 
reality  from  the  one  which  had  haunted  her 
during  this  long  ten  days,  for  imagination  is 
rarely  quite  faithful  at  first.  But  still  it  wore 
the  same  inexpressible  charm.  She  dared  look 
at  it  now,  for  the  eyes  were  turned  away.  Mrs. 
Lancaster  floated  up  to  Eleanor  with  great  em- 
pressement.  "  My  dear  young  friend,  how  could 
I  mistake  you.  I  remember  you  perfectly  now," 
said  that  lady,  the  universality  of  whoso  friend 
ship  was  Its  chief  recommendation 


18 


THE  OGILVIES. 


"It  is  some  time  since  you  saw  me,"  an- 
swered Eleanor's  quiet  voice,  "  and  my  cousin 
and  I  are  alike  in  height,  so  the  mistake  was 
not  surprising." 

"  And  you  have  been  quite  well  since  I  saw 
you  last,  and  that  charming  young  man,  your 
brother — Peter." 

"Hugh,"  said  Eleanor,  smiling.  "He  is 
quite  well,  I  believe ;  he  made  one  of  your 
guests  the  other  day." 

"  Of  course — oh,  yes !"  and  Mrs.  Lancaster's 
lips  formed  themselves  into  an  exquisite  smile, 
while  her  eyes  wandered  abstractedly  about  the 
room.  She  had  in  perfection  the  faculty  which 
is  so  useful  in  general  society,  that  of  being  able 
to  train  the  features  into  the  appearance  of 
polite  attention,  attended  by  just  so  much  of  the 
mind  as  will  suffice  for  suitable  answers. 

Mr.  Paul  Lynedon  was  not  quite  so  much  au 
fait  as  this;  he  had  not  lived  so  long  in  the 
world  by  some  dozen  years  as  his  excellent 
friend,  Mrs.  Lancaster ;  therefore,  in  the  conver- 
sation which  he  tried  hard  to  commence  with 
Katharine,  he  did  net  succeed  in  advancing  one 
step  beyond  the  weather,  and  the  distance  from 
London  to  Summerwood.  Perhaps  Katharine 
herself  had  something  to  do  with  this,  for  though 
it  was  her  delight  to  listen  when  Paul  Lynedon 
talked  to  others,  the  tones  of  his  musical  voice, 
addressed  to  herself,  oppressed  her  with  a  pain- 
ful timidity;  it  was  positively  a  relief  when 
Eleanor  proposed  an  adjournment  with  the  bon- 
nets and  shawls. 

When  the  two  cousins  re-entered  the  drawing- 
room,  there  was  still  the  same  striking  contrast 
between  them ;  Eleanor  so  calm  and  self-pos- 
sessed ;  Katharine  almost  trembling  with  nervous 
timidity. 

The  little  party  were  grouped,  as  was  natural 
they  should  be — Mrs.  Lancaster  conversing 
•with  Mr.  Ogilvie,  while  a  feeling  of  hostess-like 
benignity  prompted  Mrs.  Ogilvie  to  extract 
from  the  taciturn  Mr.  Lancaster  small  frag- 
ments of  conversation  relative  to  the  weather, 
their  journey,  the  country  in  general,  and 
Summerwood  in  particular.  Paul  Lynedon 
was  carelessly  turning  over  the  leaves  of  a 
book,  occasionally  joining  in  with  a  passing 
remark. 

On  the  entrance  of  the  two  girls,  he  at  once 
displayed  the  customary  courtesy  of  providing 
them  with  seats,  though  in  a  manner  so  quick 
and  unconscious  that  it  might  have  passed  with- 
out a  remark.  There  is  nothing  more  annoying 
and  uncomfortable  to  a  lady  than  to  enter  a  • 
room  and  see  every  gentleman  jump  up,  armed  : 
with  a  chair,  ready  to  perform  acts  of  officious  I 
chivalry,  which  place  the  recipient  in  a  position 
infinitely  more  unpleasant  than  if  she  were  en- 
tirely neglected. 

Paul  Lynedon  began  with  a  common-place — 
and,  reader,  almost  all  things  in  life,  pleasant 
friendships,  deep,  earnest,  lite-long  loves,  begin 
with  the  same — he  made  the  remark,  that  the 
/iew  from  the  hall-windows  was — that  it  would 
be  in  daylight,  and  in  summer-time — a  very 
beautiful  one ;  and  then  he  could  not  help  smiling 
as  he  thought  what  a  stupid  and  involved  obser- 
vation he  had  made. 

That  very  circumstance  broke  the  ice.  v 

"You  seem  to  have  an  instinctive  perception 
of  the  beaut ifi/l,  Mr.  Lynndon,"  said  Eleanor. 


"  You  see  '  with  your  mind's  eye,'  which  pierces 
through  the  darkness  of  a  winter  night,  closed 
shutters,  curtains  and  all."  And  the  good-tem- 
pered smile  which  accompanied  her  words,  fairly 
removing  their  sting,  caused  Paul  Lynedon  to 
laugh  merrily. 

"You  have  saved  me,  Miss  Eleanor — given 
me  something  to  talk  about,  and  redeemed  me 
from  committing  myself  any  more,  by  unfolding 
to  me  a  few  points  in  the  character  of  the  lady 
with  whom  1  have  the  pleasure  of  conversing/' 

"  What,  can  you  find  out  my  character  from 
that  one  speech?"  said  Eleanor,  rather  amused, 

"A  little  of  it." 

"Tell  me  how?" 

"  Why,  in  the  first  place,  you  have  Shakspeare 
on  your  tongue,  and  consequently  in  your  heart. 
One  rarely  quotes  where  one  does  not  love  the 
author,  therefore  you  love  Shakspeare,  and  as  a 
necessary  result,  all  true  poetry.  Then  my  re- 
mark— common-place,  forced,  and  to  a  certain 
degree  insincere,  as  I  acknowledge  it  to  be — 
made  you  smile ;  therefore  you  have  a  quick 
perception  of  what  is  inclined  to  falseness  and 
affectation,  while  your  condemnation  of  it  is 
good-tempered  and  lenient.  Have  I  explained 
myself,  even  though  I  prove  my  own  accuser?" 

"Perfectly,  though  you  are  too  harsh  upon 
yourself,"  answered  Eleanor.  "  What  do  you 
say  to  this  sketch  of  me,  Katharine?" 

"  If  Mr.  Lynedon  means  that  you  are  all-true 
in  yourself,  and  all-kind  toward  others,  he  is 
quite  right,"  said  Katharine,  affectionately. 

Paul  Lynedon  directed  toward  the  warm- 
hearted speaker  a  look  of  more  curiosity  than 
he  had  yet  thought  fit  to  bestow  upon  the 
"little  school-girl." 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Ogilvie;  that  is,  I  thank 
you  for  proving  my  observations  correct.  A 
harmless  vanity;  yet  I  fancy  they  needed  no 
proof  but  the  presence  of  Miss  Eleanor."  And, 
as  he  bowed,  his  eyes  rested  on  her  face  ad 
miringly. 

No  added  color  came  to  that  clear  cheek: 
the  smile  was  tranquil  and  self-possessed,  and 
Paul  Lynedon  felt  almost  vexed.  She  was  the 
first  pretty  woman  who  had  seemed  indifferent 
to  his  compliments.  The  little  group  were 
again  sinking  into  small-talk,  when  a  servant 
came  to  the  door  with  "Sir  James  Ogilvie's 
compliments,  and  he  was  impatient  for  the 
honor  of  receiving  Mr.  Paul  Lynedon." 

"  My  father  is  very  old,  and  has  a  few  pecu- 
liarities; will  it  be  agreeable  to  you  to  numor 
him  with  a  visit  now?"  said  Mrs.  Ogilvie,  al- 
most apologetically. 

"I  forgot  to  tell  Mr.  Lynedon  about  SI. 
James,"  said  Mrs.  Lancaster,  "pray  go— you 
will  be  so  much  amused  with  his  oddities,"  she 
continued,  in  a  low  tone.  It  was  meant  for  an 
aside,  but  it  jarred  painfully  on  Katharine's  ear, 
which  was  ever  open  to  all  that  was  said  by,  or 
addressed  to  Paul  Lynedon. 

But  the  young  man's  only  answer  was  di- 
rected to  Mrs.  Ogilvie. 

"  Pray  d9  not  talk  to  me  about '  humoring'  Sir 
James  ;  it  is  always  to  me  not  only  a  duty  but  a 
pleasure  to  show  respect  to  old  age." 

Katharine's  heart  beat  with  delight,  and  her 
bright  smile  had  in  it  something  of  pude,  **  it 
rested  on  Paul  Lynedon.  He  had  never  looked 
so  noble  in  her  eyes. 


THE  OGILVIES. 


"Katharine,  show  Mr.  Lynedon  the  way  to 
your  grandfather's  study ;  you  can  make  Sir 
James  understand  better  than  any  one,"  said 
Mrs.  Ogilvie. 

Paul  offered  his  arm  to  the  young  girl,  and 
led  her  out  of  the  room  with  a  stately  courtesy, 
that  made  Katharine  almost  fancy  she  was 
escorto  ]  by  Sir  Charles  Grandison. 

Through  the  long  hall,  where  the  light  of 
modern  gas  contrasted  strangely  enough  with 
the  quaint  panneled  walls  and  ancient  moldings, 
Katharine  and  her  cavalier  passed.  She  could 
hardly  believe  that  she  was  alone  with  Paul 
Lynedon,  that  her  hand  rested  on  his  arm,  that 
his  voice  was  really  in  her  ear,  talking  with 
gentle  consideration  of  all  things  that  he  thought 
Ukely  to  set  the  timid  girl  at  her  ease 

But  there  was  something  so  irresistibly  win- 
ning in  all  that  Paul  Lynedon  did,  that  before 
they  reached  Sir  James's  door,  Katharine  found 
herself  talking  frankly  of  her  grandfather,  his 
love  for  her,  his  waning  intellect,  and  explain- 
ing the  misapprehension  which  had  led  to  his 
.inxiety  to  see  Mr.  Lynedon. 

"  I  hardly  know  whether  it  would  not  be  as 
well  to  let  him  continue  in  the  idea,"  said  Kath- 
arine :  "  it  gives  him  pleasure :  but  then  I  do 
not  like  to  deceive  dear  grandpapa." 

"  It  will  not  be  deceit,  for  I  believe  I  do  really 
belong  to  the  same  family,"  answered  Lynedon, 
'  so  let  us  go  in." 

The  old  baronet  raised  himself  on  his  gold- 
Aeaded  cane,  and  extended  his  thin  yellow  fingers 
to  his  visitor. 

"It  is  to  me  an  honor  and  pleasure  to  wel- 
come my  old  friend's  son.  Am  I  not  right  in 
addressing  the  heir  of  Viscount  Lynedon?" 

"  My  name  is  Lynedon,  and  I  h?'  e  no  doubt 
(hat  my  father  was  well  acquainted  with  the 
jame  of  Sir  James  Ogilvie,"  said  Paul,  evasively. 

Somehow  Katharine  did  not  like  the  subter- 
fuge ;  and  yet  it  sprang  from  kindly  feeling.  She 
said  this  to  herself  until  she  became  quite  satis- 
fied ;  the  more  so,  as  Lynedon  replaced  the  old 
man  in  his  chair  with  an  air  of  respectful  court- 
esy, and  then  taking  a  seat  beside  him,  entered 
into  conversation.  He  talked  with  the  baronet 
to  his  heart's  content,  showing  himself  perfectly 
at  home  in  all  peculiarities  of  the  long-past  era, 
wherein  alone  Sir  James  seemed  to  exist;  and 
moreover,  he  appeared  to  throw  his  whole  mind 
into  the  conversation  with  a  cordial  earnestness 
that  at  first,  excited  Katharine's  surprise,  and 
then  her  warm  admiration. 

"  How  kind,  how  considerate,  how  clever  he 
is,"  she  thought  to  herself,  as  she  stood  in  the 
shadow,  watching  each  expression  of  his  face, 
and  listening  to  the  music  of  his  voice.  Through 
every  avenue  by  which  brilliant  and  noble  qual- 
ities first  attract  and  then  enchain  a  heart  alive 
to  all  that  is  good  and  beautiful,  was  Paul  Lyne- 
don unconsciously  taking  possession  of  Katha- 
rine's. 

While  unwittingly  stealing  this  young  girl's 
heart,  Lynedon  no  less  won  that  of  Sir  James. 
Delightedly  the  old  man  passed  from  conversa- 
tion about  public  matters  to  inquiries  concern- 
ing his  friend  the  viscount,  and  the  whole  Lyne- 
don family,  which  Paul  answered  with  a  clear- 
ness and  readiness  that  charmed  his  companion. 
Katharine  having  now  completely  got  over  the 
facl  that  Paul  had  assumed  an  untrue  character 


to  please  her  grandfather,  felt  quite  glac  that, 
though  there  was  a  slight  mistake  about  his 
being  the  viscount's  son,  Lynedon  was  so  well 
acquainted  with  all  the  affairs  of  his  family,  and 
could  thus  delight  Sir  James  so  much. 

The  dinner-bell  rang  when  he  was  in  the 
midst  of,  an  account  of  the  marriage  of  Lord 
Lynedon's  eldest  daughter. 

"  I'm  quite  sorry  that  I  must  relinquish  the 
honor  of  your  society,  my  dear  young  friend,  for 
may  I  not  bestow  that  title  on  your  father's 
son?"  said  the  baronet,  taking  Lynedon's  hand, 
with  a  curious  mixture  of  formality  and  affection. 

"I  shall  always  be  proud  of  the  title,"  an- 
swered Paul. 

"  And  besides,  on  second  thoughts,  I  believe 
that  more  than  one  intermarriage  has  taken 
place  between  the  Lynedons  and  the  Ogilvies. 
Katharine,  before  you  go,  bring  me  that  'Peer- 
age ;'  I  feel  almost  sure  that  there  must  be  some 
connection  between  Mr.  Lynedon  and  ourselves. 
Suppose  he  were  to  turn  out  a  cousin — eh?" 

"  I  should  only  be  too  happy  to  boast  any  re- 
lationship to  Miss  Ogilvie,"  said  Paul  Lynedon. 
It  was  a  common  phrase  of  courtesy ;  he  would 
have  said  the  same  to  any  one,  especially  a 
woman,  and  yet  the  blood  rushed  to  Katharine's 
dark  cheek,  and  her  heart  beat  wildly.  She 
hastily  walked  to  the  book-case ;  but  if  Debrette's 
"Peerage"  had  been  written  as  plain  as  with 
letters  of  phosphorus,  her  eyes  could  not  have 
discovered  it. 

But  Lynedon's  practice  of  the  bien  seances  was 
never  at  fault,  and  the  book  was  soon  in  Sir 
James's  hand. 

"  Adieu,  my  dear  young  friend.  Katharine, 
bring  him  again  very  soon,"  said  the  baronet. 

"A  venerable  old  man,  your  grandfather," 
observed  Paul  Lynedon,  as  they  threaded  once 
more  the  long  passages. 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  talk  to  him  so 
much,"  Katharine  answered,  softly. 

"  Oh,  not  at  all — not  at  all,  my  dear  Miss 
Ogilvie.  But,  here  is  the  drawing-room  a  very 
desert;,  forsaken  by  all  except  Miss  Eleanor," 
he  added,  "  which  makes  my  first  remark  a  most 
untrue  one .  Let  me  have  the  happiness  of  escort  - 
ing  both  the  lair  cousins  to  the  dining-room  " 


CHAPTER  VII. 

As  on  the  finger  of  a  throned  queen 
The  basest  jewel  would  be  well  esteemed ; 
So  are  those  errors  that  in  thee  are  seen 
To  truths  translated,  and  for  true  things  deemed. 
SHAKSPKARK. 

MRS.  LANCASTER,  hemmed  in  on  one  side  by 
the  sedate  and  somewhat  ponderous  courtesies 
of  Mrs.  Ogilvie,  and  on  the  other  by  the  long 
interval  of  dinner-table  space  which  separated 
her  from  the  inanities  of  her  husband,  looked 
often  toward  the  other  side,  where  Paul  Lynedon 
sat  between  the  two  fair  cousins,  trying  to  en- 
liven as  much  as  possible  the  terrible  solemnity 
of  this  always  formal  meal. 

It  is  not  in  human  nature  to  talk  well  during 
soup.  This  is  the  case  even  with  the  most 
serious  and  earnest  of  conversationalists — those 
who,  disliking  the  current  nothings  of  society, 
plunge  at  once  into  some  -sensible  topic,  so  as  to 
fathom,  if  possible,  the  minds  of  their  associates. 
These  excellent  coral-divers  of  soc  iety  find  their 


THE  OG1LVIES. 


occupation  gone  at  the  commencement  of  a  din- 
ner-party ;  a  few  refreshing  dips  over  head,  just 
to  try  the  waters,  are  all  they  can  venture,  until 
the  necessary  duties  of  eating  and  drinking  are 
performed. 

Therefore,  as  we  aim  not  at  chronicling  every 
word  and  action  with  exact  fidelity,  even  as  Van 
Eyck  painted  the  hairs  of  a  lapdog's  tail  and  the 
nails  in  a  floor,  we  do  not  think  it  necessary  to 
enumerate  all  the  graceful  trifles  that  Paul 
Lynedon  said,  interesting  his  fair  neighbors  first, 
and  by  degrees  the  elders  of  the  company.  He 
threw  over  the  commonest  things  a  light  fila- 
gree-work of  elegance,  that,  while  unsubstantial 
and  evanescent,  yet  made  every  thing  seem 
beautiful  for  the  time.  And  is  not  such  an  art 
of  passing  glamour  a  most  beneficial  attainment 
in  this  weary,  dusty,  matter-of-fact  world  of 
ours? 

When  the  serious  business  of  dinner  had  re- 
solved itself  into  the  graceful  dolcefar  niente  of 
dessert,  Mrs.  Ogilvie  observed — 

"And  now  may  I  venture  to  hope,  Mr.  Lyne- 
don, that  my  poor  father  did  not  weary  you  very 
much." 

"  Not  at  all ;  we  got  on  admirably  together, 
did  we  not,  Miss  Ogilvie?"  and  Paul  turned  to 
Katharine,  who  gave  a  delighted  assent. 

"  Grandpapa  was  delighted  with  Mr.  Lyne- 
don," observed  Katharine  to  her  cousin.  "I 
never  saw  him  more  pleased.  And  Mr.  Lyne- 
don knew  all  about  the  branch  of  his  own  family 
of  which  grandpapa  talked,  so  that  he  could  an- 
swer every  question.  Where  could  you  get  so 
much  information,  Mr.  Lynedon  ?  and  how  well 
you  seemed  to  remember  every  thing." 

"  Perhaps  I  did  not  quite  remember  every  thing, 
Miss  Ogilvie,"  he  answered,  smiling.  "My  his- 
tory of  the  Lynedon  pedigree  was,  like  hasty 
novels,  only  'founded  on  facts.'  It  seemed  to 
please  your  grandfather,  and  I  was  delighted  to 
secure  his  good  opinion,  even  though  it  entailed 
upon  me  some  exercise  of  imagination.  But — 
but,"  he  stopped  and  hesitated,  for  he  met  the 
calm,  clear  eyes  of  Eleanor  Ogilvie  fixed  on  his 
face  with  an  expression  before  which  his  own 
fell. 

He  grew  confused  and  tried  to  laugh  the  matter 
off.  "  I  fear  your  cousin  here  thinks  there  was 
something  very  wicked  in  my  little  extempore 
romance.  Yet  I  did  all  for  the  best.  Let  me 
plead  before  my  fair  accuser." 

"I  am  no  accuser,"  said  Eleanor,  with  quiet 
dignity. 

"  Surely  Eleanor  would  not  say  one  word 
against  what  was  done  with  such  kindly  motives, 
and  succeeded  so  well  in  giving  grandpapa 
pleasure?"  cried  Katharine,  while  an  unwonted 
light  kindled  her  dark  eyes. 

Paul  Lynedon  looked  surprised,  perhaps  a 
little  gratified.  He  thanked  his  "young  de- 
fender," as  he  called  her,  and  changed  the  con- 
versation, which,  by  his  consummate  skill,  he 
caused  to  flow  in  an  easy  and  delicious  current 
until  the  ladies  retired. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Mr.  Lynedon  now, 
Eleanor?"  cried  Katharine,  as,  leaving  Mrs. 
Lancaster  and  her  hostess  deeply  engaged  in  a 
friendly  feminine  discussion  on  costume,  the  two 
cousins  crept  away  to  Mrs.  Ogilvie's  dressing- 
room,  and  there  indulged  in  a  talk. 

"  Under  what  particular  phase  am  I  to  crit^ise 


this  hero  of  yours.  Katharine?"  was  Eleanor's 
response;  "do  you  wish  me  to  call  him  hand- 
some ?" 

"  No ;  for  that  wou.d  not  be  true.  But  is  lie 
not  very  clever — so  perfect  a  gentleman — so  re- 
fined?'' 

"Too  refined  for  me." 

"  How  can  that  be  possible  ?  Really,  Eleanor, 
what  taste  you  have,"  said  Katharine,  turning 
away. 

"  To  speak  candidly,  though  there  were  niacy 
things  in  Mr.  Lynedon  that  pleased  me  very 
much,  there  was  one  that  I  did  not  like ;  why 
did  he  make  grandpapa  believe  what  was  not 
true?" 

"Because  he  wished  to  give  pleasure,  and 
therefore  it  was  not  wtong;  I  am  sure  it  was 
not." 

"  Now,  dear  Katharine,  I  think  it  was.  Plain- 
ly, what  he  called  a  little  romance,  was  a  tissue 
of  untruths." 

"You  are  very  unjust,  Eleanor." 

"  I  hope  not ;  but  you  asked  me  for  my  opinion, 
and  how  can  I  help  giving  it  ?  It  seemed  to  me 
that  Mr.  Lynedon  thought  more  of  being  gener- 
ally agreeable  than  of  doing  what  was  right." 

"  There  you  are,  at  your  moralities  again  j 
where  did  you  learn  them  all  ?" 

Eleanor  would  have  been  puzzled  to  answer, 
but,  nevertheless,  her  perception  of  this  man's 
character  was  a  true  one.  He  had  a  keener 
desire  to  appear  than  to  be ;  public  ambition  and 
love  of  social  approbation  were  united  in  him, 
and  together  seemed  likely  to  become  so  strong 
as  to  render  invisible  in  his  own  eyes  the  "in- 
direct crook'd  ways"  by  which  he  attained  his 
end.  Yet  even  this  fault  had  its  origin  in  tne 
natural  longing  after  the  praise  and  love  of 
human  kind,  which  is  also  the  germ  of  the 
noblest  qualities  of  our  nature.  It  is  a  creed, 
harmless,  indeed,  and  inclining  us  to  patience 
and  long-suffering,  that  evil  itself  is  but  a  wild 
ill-regulated  good,  and  has  no  separate  existence. 
There  is  not  a  poison-weed  cumbering  the  ground 
that  may  not  once  have  been  a  flower.  And  it 
rests  still  with  the  Great  Fashioner,  who,  being 
all  good,  could  not  create  positive  evil,  to  stay 
the  rampant  growth,  and  to  resolve  each  cor- 
rupted particle  into  its  own  pure  elements. 

We  have  wandered  strangely  from  our  scene, 
persons,  and  conversation ;  yet  such  wanderings 
are  not  uncommon  in  real  life.  Eveiy  one  must 
now  and  then  lift  up  the  curtain  of  his  inner  be- 
ing ;  and  it  is  always  good  so  to  do.  Perhaps 
Eleanor's  "moralities,"  as  her  cousin  called 
them,  had  in  some  degree  this  effect,  for  it  is 
certain  that  both  she  and  Katharine  looked 
silently  into  the  fire  .for  some  minutes  before 
they  attempted  to  move. 

At  last  Katharine  rose,  and  smoothed  her  long 
black  hair  before  the  mirror.  She  looked  at  the 
reflection  therein  more  earnestly  than  she  was 
wont,  for  Katharine  was  one  who  cared  little  for 
her  own  personal  appearance — probably  because, 
having  all  her  life  been  told  how  plain  she  was, 
she  now  fully  believed  it,  and  reconciled  herself 
to  her  fate.  But  this  night  a  faint  sigh  revealed 
a  few  rebellious  feelings  struggling  in  her  young 
bosom. 

"Eleanor,"  she  said,  "it  must  be  very  pleatant 
to  be  beautiful." 

"  Why  ? — that  one  might  be  ndmired  ?" 


THE  OGILVIES. 


"Not  exactly  so,  but  tnat  we  might  giv 
pleasure  tc  others.  Is  not  every  one  glad  t 
look  on  what  is  beautiful  ?  and  if  we  could  our 
selves  be  as  pleasant  as  pictures  or  statues  i 
the  eyes  of  others,  at  least  of  those  we  love — 
"A  sweet,  loving  definition  of  that  desire  t 
be  fair  which  we  all  have,  more  or  less,"  sai 
Eleanor.  "What  made  you  think  of  it  jus 
now?" 

K  Because  I  was  looking  at  myself,  and  think 
ing  how  different  it  would  be  if  I  saw  a  beauti 
ful  reflection  in  the  glass  instead  of  that  ugl 
face  and  awkward  figure." 

"  My  dear  Katharine  !"  answered  her  cousin 
putting  her  arms  round  the  girl's  neck,  "  do  no 
speak  so  of  yourself;  remember,  you  are  quit 
young ;  I  should  not  wonder  if  you  turned  out  ; 
beauty  yet — tall,  thin  girls  like  ypu  very  oftei 
do." 

"  Do  you  think  so ;  do  you  really  think  so  ? 
cried  Katharine.  "  Oh,  how  glad  I  am !"  Am 
then  a  sudden  impulse  of  shame  dyed  her  fac 
and  neck  crimson.  "I  am  afraid  you  will  thin! 
me  very  vain  and  foolish  ;  but — but — " 

"  I  think  you  a  little,  wayward,  fanciful,  darling 
girl,"  replied  Eleanor,  "and  the  more  you  let  me 
peep  into  your  heart,  no  matter  what  I  see  there 
the  more  you  will  please  your  cousin  Nelly.  Anc 
now  let  us  go  down  stairs." 

Mrs.  Ogilvie  sat  in  one  arm-chair,  and  Mrs 
Lancaster  in  another — two  planets  in  opposition 
They  certainly  belonged  to  different  hemispheres, 
and  no  power  on  earth  could  make  them  blend 
their  light.  Poor  Mrs.  Ogilvie  had  had  a  mosl 
painful  hunt  after  ideas,  and  now,  wearied  and 
worn,  she  fairly  gave  in,  unable  to  pursue  the 
chase,  and  determining  to  let  the  conversation 
take  its  chance.  Mrs.  Lancaster  was  one  of 
those  inflexible  talkers  who  will  choose  their 
subject,  and  "say  their  say,"  without  regarding 
the  capabilities  of  their  hearers.  If  the  latter 
understood  and  followed  her,  well ;  if  not,  she 
let  them  "toil  after  her  in  vain"  until  she  had 
done,  and  then  passed  on,  rejoicing  in  the  supe- 
riority of  her  own  intellect.  Yet,  at  times,  she 
positively  plumed  herself  upon  her  skill  in  adapt- 
ing her  conversation  to  all  varieties  of  listeners. 
Under  this  idea  she  would  in  these  days  have 
entered  a  village  blacksmith's,  and  talked  about 
Elihu  Burritt,  or  discussed  with  some  poor  stock- 
ing-weaver Lee's  invention  of  the  loom,  illustrat- 
ed by  fragmentary  allusions  to  Elmore's  late  pic- 
ture on  this  subject ;  a  speech  on  the  union  of 
art  and  manufactures  forming  an  appropriate 
winding  up  to  the  whole. 

Thus  Mrs.  Lancaster  had  glided  from  the 
examination  of  her  hostess's  dress  to  a  dissert- 
ation on  the  costume  of  the  middle  ages,  varied 
by  references  to  Froissart  and  the  illuminated 
manuscripts  of  monkish  times.  Mrs.  Ogilvie, 
carried  out  of  her  depth,  struggled  for  a  little, 
and  had  failed  in  her  last  despairing  effort,  just 
when  her  daughter  and  niece  came  to  the  res- 
cue. Eleanor  saw  at  once  the  state  of  the  case, 
by  the  sudden,  half-imploring  glance  which  her 
aunt  turned  to  the  opening  door,  and  the  un- 
changing smile  of  pat.ent  politeness  which  sat 
on  her  lip;.  Taking  her  place  by  Mrs.  Ogilvie, 
she  relieved  guard,  ingeniously  sustaining  the 
whole  burden  of  Mrs.  Lancaster's  conversation 
until  coffee  appeared,  and  with  it  the  wanderer, 
Hogh. 


In  most  after-dinner  female  cotei.es  the  advent 
of  one  of  the  nobler  sex  produces  a  satisfactory 
change,  and  Hugh's  coming  formed  no  excep- 
tion to  the  rule.  His  cheerful,  pleasant  face 
always  brought  sunshine  with  it.  Mrs.  Ogilvie 
gathered  courage,  Mrs.  Lancaster  thawed,  and 
the  two  girls  were  fully  disposed  to  enjoyment. 
Only  Katharine,  while  she  tried  to  interest  her- 
self in  Hugh's  account  of  his  day's  sport,  could 
not  help  wondering,  now  and  then,  what  it  was 
that  detained  Paul  Lynedon. 

Lynedon  was  deep  in  a  conversation  witA  Mr, 
Ogil vie  concerning  electioneering  topics .  There 
was  a  borough  near,  where  the  Summerwood 
interest  still  lingered,  despite  the  Reform  Act ; 
and  Paul's  inward  dreams  of  ambition  invested 
Mr.  Ogilvie's  conversation  with  a  wondrous 
charm.  He  did  not  act — for,  as  we  have  before 
stated,  Paul  Lynedon  was  not  habitually  insin- 
cere— but  the  golden  shadow  of  the  time  to 
come,  when  his  host's  friendship  might  be  of 
service,  made  him  regard  many  a  prosy  com- 
mon-place with  a  feeling  of  real  interest,  and 
also  exert  his  own  powers  to  their  utmost  in 
order  to  produce  a  satisfactory  impression. 

When  the  clear  singing  of  a  young  girl  pene- 
trated to  the  dining-room,  Paul  Lynedon  first 
remembered  he  had  asked  Eleanor  the  usual 
question,  "  Did  she  love  music  ?"  and  the  sud- 
den brightening  of  her  face  had  answered  the 
question  better  than  her  tongue.  He  felt  sure 
that  the  voice  was  hers,  and  the  future  election, 
with  all  its  ingenious  devices,  faded  from  his 
mind.  When  he  reached  the  drawing-room 
door  it  was  quite  gone. 

Paul  Lynedon  never  saw  one  cheek  that 
plowed  with  sudden  pleasure  at  his  entrance; 
le  walked  straight  to  the  piano,  and  said  to 
Eleanor,  "I  knew  I  was  right.  It  was  you 
who  sang,  was  it  not  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  love  music,  as  I  think  I  told  you." 

"  Will  you  sing  again  for  me  ?" 

"  You  are  quite  unconscionable,"  said  Mrs. 
Lancaster,  while  the  faintest  shade  of  acrimony 
mingled  with  her  dulcet  tone.  "  I  am  sure  she 
must  be  tired." 

The  hint  failed;  and  Mrs.  Lancaster  was 
oomed  to  a  little  longer  silence,  while  Eleanor 
ang  again,  and  yet  again.  Paul  Lynedon  was 
nchanted,  for  her  voice  was  the  true  heart-mu- 
ic,  and  it  touched  the  purest  and  inmost  springs 
f  his  nature.  He  was  no  longer  the  polished, 
rbane  gentleman  of  society — he  stood  as  Kath- 
rine  had  first  beheld  him — so  silent,  so  deeply 
moved,  that  he  forgot  to  pay  a  single  compliment, 
r  even  to  say  "  Thank  you." 

He  knew  not  that  Eleanor  had  sung  thus  well 
nly  because,  she  had  forgotten  his  presence,  hi* 
ery  existence ;  because  every  song,  by  raising 
ome*  hidden  link  of  memory,  and  touching  some 
ecret  feeling,  carried  her  further  and  further 
way  into  the  dim  past,  and  blotted  out  all  the 
resent.  He  guessed  not,  that  while  she  poured 
ut  her  whole  heart,  no  thought  of  him,  or  of  his 
pproval,  influenced  the  song;  that  though  he 
;ood  beside  her,  the  face  she  saw  was  not  his  j 
nd  when,  at  last,  his  voice  thanked  her,  it  jar- 
ed  on  her  ear  like  a  painful  waking  from  a 
leasant  dream. 

And  then  her  uncle  and  Mr.  Lancaster  came, 
nth  their  vapid  acknowledgments.  But  neither 
hey,  nor  the  gentle  Mrs.  Ogilvie  who,  in  the 


THE  OGILVIES. 


good-nature  of  others,  saw  the  reflection  of  her 
own,  and  praised  her  niece  accordingly ;  nor  the 
wordly  fashionable  dame,  who.  living  all  for  out- 
iide  show,  secretly  acknowledged  that,  though 
done  for  effect,  it  was  almost  as  good  as  reality ; 
nor  poor,  simple  Katharine  who  marveled  at  no 
inspiration,  the  guerdon  of  which  was  Paul  Ly- 
nedon's  praise — not  one  of  these  had  fathomed 
the  truth,  or  knew  why  it  was  that  Eleanor  Ogil- 
vie  had  sung  so  well. 

The  change  wrought  in  Paul  Lynedon  made 
him  seem  more  attractive,  even  in  Eleanor's 
eyes.  His  manner  grew  earnest,  and  lost  that 
outside  gloss  of  almost  annoying  deference  that 
characterized  it  when  he  had  talked  with  the 
two  girls  at  dinner.  He  spoke  like  a  man — put 
forth  his  own  opinion  honestly,  even  when  it  dif- 
fered from  theirs.  They  talked — he,  and  Elea- 
nor, and  Katharine — 'about  books  and  music, 
and  all  pleasant  things,  which  are  a  continual 
feast  to  the  young  and  happy.  Recognizing 
Hugh,  Lynedon  drew  him,  almost  against  his 
will,  into  the  charmed  circle,  conquering  his  re- 
luctance to  talk,  and  making  him  feel  interested 
upon  subjects  that  otherwise  he  cared  little 
about.  It  was  rather  an  exertion,  but  Paul  was 
in  a  happy  mood.  So  all  conflicting  elements 
were  reconciled,  and  Lynedon  and  Eleanor  led 
the  way,  and  supported  the  chief  conversation. 
Hugh  was  happy,  for  he  had  Katharine  next  to 
him.  She  sat  almost  silent,  vailing  her  dark 
dreamy  eyes  with  their  long  lashes ;  and  at 
times,  when  Paul  Lynedon  spoke  earnestly, 
raising  them  to  his  face  with  a  look  which 
once  positively  startled  him  with  its  strange  in- 
tenseness.  Katharine  was  conscious  of  but  one 
influence — new,  wild,  delicious — which  breathed 
in  his  words,  which  brightened  every  thing  where- 
on he  looked.  He  seemed  to  her  some  glorious 
and  divine  creature, 

Whose  overpowering  presence  made  her  feel 

It  would  not  be  idolatry  to  kneel. 

And  Paul  Lynedon,  what  did  he  think  of  her? 
Let  his  own  words  tell. 

"You  seem  delighted  with  the  Ogilvies?" 
whispered  Mrs.  Lancaster,  as,  somewhat  piqued 
at  the  dull  evening  passed  with  the  elders,  she 
was  about  to  retire. 

"Oh,  certainly— delighted !"  echoed  Paul- 
"they  are  a  charming  family." 

"Especially  the  young  vocalist?" 

Lynedon  answered  warmly,  but  laconically, 
"I  quite  agree  with  you." 

"  And  the  dark-eyed  Katharine  ?" 

"  A  gentle,  thoughtful  creature ;  evidently 
full  of  feeling,  and  so  fond  of  her  cousin.  I  like 
— I  almost  love — Katharine  Ogilvie,"  he  said, 
decisively. 

And  it  so  chanced,  that  in  passing  by,  Kath- 
arine heard  the  words. 

He  had  said  them  idly,  and  forgotten  them  as 
soon  as  they  were  uttered,  but  they  gave  a  color- 
ing to  her  whole  life. 

Oh  ye,  who  have  passed  through  the  cloudy 
time  when  youth  is  struggling  with  the  strange 
and  mysterious  stirrings  of  that  power  which, 
either  near  or  remote,  environs  our  whole  life 
with  its  influence,  who  can  now  look  back  calm- 
ly on  that  terrible  mingling  of  stormy  darkness 
and  glorious  light,  and  know  on  wha't  shadowy 
nothings  love  will  build  airy  palaces  wherein  a 
god  might  dwei1!,  regard  with  tenderness  that 


wild,  enthusiastic  dream !  '  Perchancn  there  w 
one  of  you  who  has  dreamed  like  Katharine 
Ogilvie. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Say  never,  ye  loved  once. 
God  is  too  near  above— the  grave  below, 

And  all  our  moments  go 
Too  quickly  past  our  souls,  for  saying  so. 
The  mysteries  of  life  and  death  avenge 

Affections  light  of  range. 
There  comes  no  change  to  justify  that  change. 

E.  B.  BFOWNINS. 

The  memory  of  the  withered  leaf 
In  endless  time  is  scarce  more  brief 
Than  of  the  garnered  autumn  sheaf: 

Go,  vexed  Spirit,  sleep  in  trust! 
The  right  ear,  that  is  filled  with  dust 
Hears  little  of  the  false  or  just 

TENNYSO*. 

THERE  are  in  our  existence  days  which  are 
ages.  True,  at  such  seasons  the  hours  glide  as 
fast,  nay,  faster  in  their  golden  stream;  but 
when  we  look  back,  it  seems  as  though  the 
narrow  tide  of  a  single  day  had  swelled  into  a 
life's  flood — a  mighty  ocean  which  upheaves 
itself  between  us  and  the  last  epoch  that  we 
called  the  past. 

It  was  thus  with  Katharine  when  she  arose 
next  morning.  Her  foot  seemed  already  within 
the  shining  entrance-gate  of  a  new  paradise — 
the  old  childish  world  of  a  few  hours  since 
looked  far  distant,  and  oh,  how  pale  and  dim ! 
She  scarcely  turned  her  face  to  gaze  upon  it 
now.  All  night  her  spirit  had  floated  among 
the  wildest,  the  most  delicious  fancies;  and 
even  on  her  waking  she  felt  as  still  in  a  dream. 
On  descending,  she  found  that  her  restless  hap- 
piness had  made  her  the  earliest  riser  in  the 
house.  She  lingered  a  few  minutes  in  the 
breakfast-room,  looking  out  on'  the  dappled 
morning  sky,  and  thinking  how  beautiful  the 
world  was.  Then  she  went  into  the  drawing- 
room,  and  began  to  pour  out  her  heart's  emotion 
to  her  usual  friendly  confidante — her  piano-forte. 
Katharine  loved  music  intensely,  but  the  very 
sense  which  made  her  feel  so  keenly  the  power 
of  song  rendered  its  science  irksome  in  the 
extreme.  Still  though  in  society  she  shrank 
from  any  display,  she  sometimes  sat  alone  for 
hours,  her  light  fingers  and  sweet,  but  feeble 
voice,  weaving  together  bird-like  melodies,  most' 
of  which  were  the  inspiration  of  the  moment. 

Now  almost  unconsciously,  she  glided  into 
the  song  which  Miss  Trevor's  rich  tones  and 
Paul  Lynedon's  praise  had  impressed  upon  her 
memory.  She  sang  it  with  her  whole  heart, 
seeing  nothing,  save  perchance  one  likeness 
which  her  fancy  conjured  up,  and  which  formed 
the  inspiration  of  the  strain. 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  Ogilvie,"  said  a  voice 
behind — Paul  Lynedon's  own — for  he  had  en- 
tered  softly ;  "  why  will  you  compel  me  to  act 
the  spy  in  order  to  attain  such  a  pleasure  as 
this?" 

Katharine  did  not  answer.  Poor  child !  she 
trembled  like  a  little  bird  in  its  captor's  hands. 

Paul  thought  what  terribly  hard  work  it  was 
to  get  on  at  all  with  young  girls,  who  bore  the 
lingering  traces  of  pinafores  and  bread-and- 
butter.  But  good-nature  urged  him  to  make 
another  attempt. 


THE  OGILVIES. 


"  I  was  not  aware  that  you  sang  at  all,  still 
wss  that  you  knew  this  pet  song  of  mine,  which 
I  asked  your  cousin  for  in  vain  last  night;  why 
did  you  not  tell  me  so  ?" 

"  Because  I  can  not  sing,"  murmured  Katha- 
ine ;  "  I  have  scarcely  any  voice." 

"Nay,  £  must  differ  from  you  there;  you 
tiave  a  very  sweet  one ;  only  it  wants  power 
and  proper  cultivation.  But  you  sing  with  your 
soul,  if  not  with  your  lips,  and  that  is  what  I 
love  to  hear." 

And  then,  Lynedon,  to  relieve  her  confusion, 
went  on  talking  in  an  easy,  kind,  quiet  manner, 
about  the  quality  of  her  voice  and  the  way  to 
strengthen  it.  "  But  what  a  long  speech  I  am 
making— quite  a  lecture,"  he  added,  laughing. 

"I  like  to  listen  to  you;  pray,  go  on,"  said 
Katharine,  simply. 

"  Well,  here  is  some  improvement ;  we  shall 
get  on  in  time,"  thought  Paul  Lynedon.  And 
then  he  continued,  "  What  I  mean  to  say  is,  that 
as  we  ought  to  let  no  talent  rust,  if  I  were  you, 
I  would  try  to  sing  as  well  as  I  could.  It  may 
not  be  quite  so  charmingly  as  your  cousin,  but 
you  will  give  pleasure  to  many,  as  you  did  to 
me  this  morning." 

"  I  am  glad — very  glad,"  said  Katharine,  with 
a  bright  smile,  and  that  earnest  look,  which 
always  puzzled  Lynedon,  in  her  intense,  dark 
eyes. 

"  Thank  you ;  and  you  will  sing  whenever  I 
ask  you,  like  a  dear  little  friend  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Then,  thank  you  once  more,"  answered 
Paul,  feeling  toward  the  "  little  shy  girl"  a  real 
liking,  which  partly  sprang  from  gratified  self- 
leye  at  having  succeeded  so  well  in  the  difficult 
task  of  drawing  her  out.  "  Then  it  is  agreed, 
Miss  Katharine — Miss  Ogilvie,  I  mean,  "  for  so 
you  are  by  right,  I  think." 

"  Yes,  but  I  am  never  called  so — only  Kath- 
arine, I  like  it  best." 

"  Then  I  will  call  you  Katharine,  if  you  will 
allow  me." 

Another  quiet "  Yes,"  sealed  the  contract ;  and 
thus  was  woven  one  more  link  of  the  dark  chain 
that  was  to  bind  that  young  heart  forever. 

The  time  of  the  visit  flew  by — the  "rest-day" 
— the  "prest-day" — and  still  the  guests  linger- 
ed, to  the  satisfaction  of  all.  It  is  astonishing 
how  soon  an  agreeable  party  at  a  country-house 
seems  to  grow  into  one  family.  And  in  this 
case  it  really  seemed  to  be  so.  Whatever  pas- 
sions were  dawning  to  life  beneath,  there  were 
no  stirrings  on  the  surface  to  break  the  calm- 
ness of  that  pleasant  circle. 

Paul  Lynedon,  after  a  few  days,  began  to 
think  a  great  deal  more  than  he  liked  to  confess 
of  Eleanor  Ogilvie.  Perhaps  this  was  because 
her  character  burst  upon  him  with  a  freshness 
that  quite  contradicted  his  former  notions  of 
women.  She  was  the  first  who,  if  not  treating 
him  with  positive  indifference,  had,  at  least, 
never  sought  in  any  way  to  win  his  attention. 
Her  perfect  independence  annoyed  him.  It 
was  in  vain  that,  every  time  he  spoke,  there 
dropped  from  his  lips,  like  the  fairy  gift  of  pearls 
and  diamonds,  compliments  so  graceful  and  re- 
fined that  they  had  been  the  envied  wonder  of 
all  his  fair  friends  of  old,  but  Eleanor  never 
once  stooped  to  pick  them  up.  His  vanity  was 
piqued,  and,  afte:  trying  the  experiment  for  a 


short  time  on  Katharii-j,  he  gave  up  these  ele- 
gant flatteries,  and  became  his  own  real  self— 
his  better  self.  But  this  change  only  gained 
from  Eleanor  a  surprised,  pleased,  and  friendly 
response.  She  treated  him  with  greater  warmth, 
but  still  with  the  unreserve  and  frank  kindness 
which  she  showed  to  every  one  around  her. 
With  men  of  Lynedon's  character  opposition  is 
often  the  greatest  incentive.  Before  he  had 
been  many  days  in  her  society,  Paul  was  more 
in  love  with  Eleanor  than  he  had  ever  been  with 
any  woman  during  his  gay  and  mercurial  life. 
Perhaps,  added  to  the  spur  of  wounded  vanity, 
came  the  impulse  of  many  purer  and  higher 
feelings,  long  dormant  within  him,  which  her 
true  nature  had  awakened  once  more ;  and  the 
reverent  admiration  with  which  he  felt  constrain- 
ed to  regard  this  gentle,  single-hearted  gyrl, 
Lynedon's  quick  and  fiery  temperament  mistook 
for  love.  i 

Paul  was  one  of  those  men  in  whom  natural 
reserve  adds  to  the  outward  self-command  taught 
by  habituation  to  society.  Therefore,  though 
Eleanor's  influence  over  him  grew  stronger 
every  day — and  he  felt  it  to  be  so — no  outward 
sign  of  his  awakening  passion  was  discernible. 
Perhaps  Eleanor  might  have  discovered  it,  for  a 
woman  generally  sees  intuitively  where  she  is 
loved ;  but  her  heart  was  too  full  of  one  feeling 
to  admit  even  the  suspicion  of  another. 

There  was  one  more  person  whose  eyes  might 
have  been  open  to  the  elements  for  future  fate 
that  were  brooding  among  the  gay  idlers  at 
Summerwood.  But  Mrs.  Lancaster  was  deep 
in  antiquarian  researches,  traversing  the  coun- 
try with  her  host  as  pioneer;  and  in  this  lady, 
love  for  science — at  least,  for  the  eclat  that  sci- 
ence brings — shut  out  even  the  feminine  impulse 
of  curiosity. 

So  the  young  people  walked,  rode,  drove,  in 
the  pleasant  winter  mornings — sat  by  the  even- 
ing fire,  and  talked,  or  sang,  or  told  ghost-stories, 
until  the  week  ended,  and  with  it  Mrs.  Lancas- 
ter's peregrinations.  She  spoke  of  going  home  : 
and,  after  the  usually  friendly  battle,  pro  and 
con,  the  affair  was  decided.  The  last  evening 
came — the  last  morning.  No  more  would  there 
be  of  those  social  firesides  at  night,  of  that 
merry  breakfast-table  chat;  and,  when  Katha- 
rine rose  to  answer  her  grandfather's  summons, 
she  felt  this  so  strongly,  that,  ere  she  reached 
the  hall,  there  was  a  strange  dimness  in  her 
eyes.  As  she  passed  on  toward  her  grand- 
father's room,  she  heard  Lynedon  call — 

"  Katharine,  Katharine,  tell  Sir  James  I  wil< 
be  with  him  by  the  time  the  reading  is  finished." 

He  had  usually  come  in  to  aid  her  in  the 
task,  and  now,  the  last  day,  every  moment  in 
his  sight  became  so  precious !  It  was  a  disap- 
pointment, that  made  what  was  ever  a  loving 
duty  seem  almost  a  burden. 

Paul  thought,  during  that  time,  he  might  con- 
trive to  be  a  few  moments  alone  with  Eleanor, 
not  to  tell  her  he  loved  her,  he  was  too  cautious 
for  that,  but  to  try  and  gain  some  word  or  look 
on  which  his  own  heart  might  rest  for  a  time, 
when  he  was  no  longer  in  her  presence.  But 
there  was  Hugh,  busy  making  flies,  his  usual 
morning  occupation,  and  continually  calling  out 
for  his  sister's  light  fingers  to  aid  in  the  dab- 
bing, or  to  cut  the  wings.  Eleanor,  all-patient 
as  she  was,  seemed  quite  content,  but  Lynedon 


24 


THE  OG1LVIES. 


grew  restless  and  uncomfortable.  At  last,  see- 
ing no  chance  of  the  brief  interview  he  sought, 
he  went  to  Sir  James's  study. 

Katharine  was  still  reading ;  but  there  was  a 
vacant  look  in  the  old  man's  eyes  which  seemed 
to  imply  that  the  listener  profited  as  little  as 
the  reader.  Every  now  and  then  he  interrupted 
her.  to  ask,  in  a  voice  feebler  than  usual,  some 
question  that  betokened  a  wandering  mind.  He 
did  not  notice  Paul's  entrance,  and  the  young 
man  motioned  to  Katharine  not  to  stop,  while 
he  placed  himself  behind  her,  and  looked  over 
what  she  read.  It  was  an  old  paper  that  chron- 
icled the  coronation  of  George  III. ;  and  Paul 
could  not  help  listening  with  a  strange,  almost 
painful  feeling,  to  the  description  of  festivities, 
courtiers,  and  court  beauties,  whose  very  mem- 
ory had  passed  away. 

"I  should  think  it  must  have  been  a  gay 
sight,  grandpapa?"  said  Katharine,  stopping. 

"  Eh,  what  did  you  say  ?  my  child." 

Katharine  repeated  her  observation. 

"Read  that  last  sentence  again,  dear;  I  don't 
think  I  quite  understood  it ;  indeed,  things  do 
not  seem  quite  clear  here  to-day."  The  old 
man  touched  his  forehead,  with  a  feeble  smile, 
and  tried  to  attend  while  Katharine  read.  Then 
he  shook  his  head  mournfully,  and  said — 

"  It  is  of  no  use,  Katharine ;  I  can't  make  it 
out.  What  is  it?" 

"It  is  an  account  of  the  coronation  levee, 
dear  grandpapa,  and  of  who  were  presented  ; 
and  look,  here,  is  your  own  name,  Sir  James 
Ogilvie,  among  the  rest." 

"  Ah,  yes — I  remember  I  went — let  me  see, 
it  must  have  been  last  week,  for  the  Gazette 
appears  weekly  now.  And  the  king  has  asked 
me  to  go  down  to  Windsor  and  hunt ;  don't  for- 
get that,  Katharine  ;  and  while  I  think  of  it,  ring 
for  Peters,  to  see  about  Ringdove.  His  Majesty 
said  there  was  not  a  finer  hunter  any  where  than 
my  Ringdove.  Make  haste,  love." 

Katharine  looked  imploringly  at  Paul  Lyne- 
don,  who  slipped  forward. 

"  My  dear  Sir  James,  you  are  thinking  of 
things  long  gone  by." 

"  Eh — what — who  are  you,  sir  ?  I  never  saw 
you  before,"  said  the  old  man,  over  whom  a 
strange  change  appeared  to  have  come,  for  his 
dim  eyes  glittered,  and  he  moved  restlessly  in 
his  chair.  "  Katharine,  who  is  this  man  ?  I 
don't  know  him.  What  is  he  going  to  do  with 
me?"  and  he  caught  his  grandchild's  hand  un- 
easily. 

"  Dearest  grandpapa,  it  is  only  Mr.  Lynedon." 

"Lynedon;  ah,  to  be  sure — Viscount  Lyne- 
don ;  my  dear  lord,  so  you  have  come  from  the 
levee;  perhaps  the  king  has  invited  you,  too? 
Ah !  is  it  so  ? — that's  well.  How  young  you 
look;  you  find  me  not  over  strong,  my  dear 
friend,  but  I  shall  soon  be  better — very  soon." 

The  old  man  paused  a  moment  in  his  unusual 
volubility,  and  turned  to  Lynedon  and  Katharine 
— neither  of  whom  woulc1  speak.  A  vague 
terror  oppressed  the  latter;  she  became  very 
pale,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Sir  James 
looked  wistfully  at  her. 

'  "  Who  is  that  lady— I  don't  remember  her?" 
he  whispered  to  Lynedon.  Katharine's  tears 
overflowed,  and  she  hid  her  face. 

"It  is  Katharine — your  own  Katharine,"  said 
Paul. 


"My  own  Katharine^'  repeated  the  old  man; 
"yes,  it  must  be  Katharine — Katharine  Mavhew. 
But  you  mistake,  my  lord,  you  must  not  call  hei 
my  Katharine.  Come  another  day,  and  I'll  tell 
you  all  about  it;  I  can't  now;"  and  his  voice 
trembled!  "There  she  is,  weeping  still;  my 
dear  friend,  go  to  her ;  we  must  do  as  the  world 
does,  and  if  her  father  should  come  in — tell  her  1 
did  love  her — I  did  indeed — and  I  always  shall, 
though  they  will  not  let  us  marry.  Katharine, 
my  Katharine,  do  not  weep." 

His  voice  dropped  almost  to  a  whisper,  and  he 
leaned  back  with  closed  eyes,  his  fingers  flutter- 
ing  to  and  fro  on  the  elbows  of  the  chair.  Lyne- 
don motioned  for  Katharine  to  speak  to  him. 

"  Are  you  tired,  dear  grandpapa,  or  not  well. 
Shall  I  call  any  one?" 

"  No,  no,  no !  I  am  quite  well,  only  tired ;  so 
tired." 

"Is  your  father  in  the  house,  Katharine?" 
asked  Paul,  who  felt  more  alarmed  than  he  liked 
to  let  her  see. 

"  No ;  he  is  gone  out  with  Mrs.  Lancaster,  I 
think  to  the  church." 

"Church!"  said  the  old  baronet,  opening  his 
eyes  at  the  word.  "Are  we  at  the  church? 
Ah,  yes,  I  remember  I  promised.  And  so  you 
are  to  be  married,  Katharine  Mayhew — married 
after  all  ?  Well,  well ;  and  this  is  your  bride- 
groom— and  his  name — " 

"Dear  grandpapa,  you  are  thinking  of  some- 
thing else,"  cried  Katharine,  sobbing.  "Here 
is  no  one  but  Mr.  Lynedon  and  myself." 

"Lynedon — so  you  are  going  to  marry  a 
Lynedon ;  well,  I  had  not  thought  so  once  ;  but 
here  we  are,  and  I  must  say  the  words  myself. 
Give  me  your  hands — " 

"Do  not  contradict  him,  it  is  best  not," 
whispered  Paul. 

Sir  James  joined  their  hands  together — even 
at  that  moment  of  terror  and  excitement — a  wild 
thrill  shot  through  Katharine's  heart,  and  her 
very  brow  crimsoned  at  the  touch.  The  old  man 
muttered  some  indistinct  sounds,  and  stopped. 

"I  have  forgotten  the  service!  how  does  it 
begin  ?  Ah !  I  remember,"  said  he,  very  faintly 
— "Earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust; 
—yes,  yes—" 

Katharine  started  up,  and  shrieked  with  terror, 
for  her  grandfather  had  sunk  back  in  his  chair, 
white  and  ghastly.  One  feeble  shudder  con- 
vulsed the  aged  limbs,  and  then  all  was  still- 
ness. 

Paul  and  Katharine — their  hands  still  clasped 
together — stood  in  the  presence  of  Death ! 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  ordinary  use  of  acquaintance  is  a  sharing  of  talk, 
news,  drink,  mirth,  together  ;  but  sorrow  is  the  right  of  a 
friend,  as  a  thing  nearer  the  heart,  and  to  be  delivered 
with  it.  BISHOP  SELDEN. 

She  did  but  look  upon  him,  and  his  blood 
Blushed  deeper,  even  from  his  inmost  heart. 
For  at  each  glance  of  those  sweet  eyes,  a  soul 
Look'd  forth  as  from  the  azure  gates  of  heaven. 

PHILIP  BAILBT. 

WHAT  a  shocking  occurrence,  and  really  quite 
unfortunate,  that  it  should  have  happened  just 
now !"  said  Mrs.  Lancaster,  as  she  paced  the 
drawing-room  in  a  state  of  nervous  agitation — > 
half  affected,  half  real.  This  was  some  two  et 


THE  OGLIVIES. 


three  hours  after  the  first  excitement  and  terror-  with  her  gloved  fingers.     "  Now  we  shall  get 
stricken  surprise  of  the  family  had  subsided  into   away  without  meeting  the  family." 
the  stillness  of  a  household  which  had  been  in-  I      "  What !  shall  you  not  see  them  before  you 
vaded  by  Death.  I  go?"  asked  Paul,  with  much  surprise. 

The  lady's  remark  drew  no  answer  from  Paul  j      "Oh,  no;  such  an  intrusion  would  be  indeo 
Lynedon,  who  was  the  only  person  present.    He   orous.     I  will  send  cards  when  I  get  home." 
sat,  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand,  in  a  grave  at-  j      "  Cards !     Why,  I  thought,   of  all  woman's 
titude.  i  duties  and  privileges,  there  was  none  so  sac 

"  I  wish  Julian  would  make  haste  with  the  ;  as  that  of  consolation.     Surely  I  have  heard  you 
carnage,"  restlessly  muttered  Mrs.  Lancaster.  \  say  so  yourself." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  get  away.  It  is  so  very  Mrs.  Lancaster  shrugged  her  shoulders, 
unpleasant  to  be  where  there  is  a  death  in  the  <  "  In  other  cases,  certainly ;  but  in  this — how- 
house  ;  it  makes  me  quite  nervous.  If  the  old  ever,  my  dear  friend,  I  can  not  argue  the  point 
gentleman  had  but  lived  until  night.  Really,  now,  for  here  is  Julian  with  the  boxes.  Really, 
Mr.  Lynedon,  I  wish  you  would  speak,  instead  it  is  very  disagreeable  to  wait  upon  ourselves, 
of  sitting  there  without  uttering  a  word — and  and  all  because  of  this  old  gentleman's  death, 
when  you  see  me  so  agitated,  too."  However,  we  shall  soon  be  at  home.  Of  course, 


;I  am  very  sorry,"  began  Paul,  in  an  absent 
tone.  "Death  is,  indeed,  solemn." 

"  Of  course,  of  course ;  but  you  know  I  do 
not  think  with  these  stupid,  church-going  peo- 
ple. No  one  of  strong  mind  would.  There  is 
Mrs.  Ogilvie,  with  her  Bible  quotations,  and  her 
talk  about  '  submission,'  as  if  it  were  not  a  good 
thing  that  the  old  man  is  gone — such  a  trouble 
as  he  was.  Of  course,  they  are  all  in  their 
hearts  quite  thankful  for  the  event." 

At  this  moment  a  low  moaning  from  one  of 
the  distant  apartments  reached  the  drawing- 
room.  Paul  Lynedon's  countenance  changed, 
from  the  apathy  with  which  he  had  listened  to 
Mrs.  Lancaster,  to  an  expression  of  deep,  corn- 


passion. 

"  Hark !  that  is  Katharine, 
child,"  he  said,  softly. 


Poor  child,  poor 


;She  has  been  in  hysterics  ever  since  you 
carried  her  to  her  room.  It  is  almost  time  the 
scene  were  ended,  I  fancy,"  answered  the  lady, 


sarcastically. 

"Mrs.  Lancaster!' 


said  Paul  Lynedon,  with 


a  look  of  grave  reproof;  but  immediately  recol 
lecting  himself,  his  countenance  resumed  its 
usual  expression,  and  he  relapsed  into  the 
thoughtful  silence  which  had  excited  Mrs.  Lan- 
caster's animadversions. 

She,  on  her  part,  was  becoming  thoroughly 
vexed  with  her  protege.  For  several  days  he 
had  not  paid  her  half  the  attention  she  exacted, 
or  wished  to  exact ;  and  now  it  appeared  to  her 
that  his  mind  was  entirely  occupied  by  thoughts 
in  which  she  had  evidently  no  share.  The  lady's 
conjectures  were  right.  At  this  moment  her 
worldliness  and  cold-heartedness  were  almost  ab- 
horrent to  Paul  Lynedon.  For  days  there  had 
been  a  struggle  within  him  between  the  two  in- 
fluences— the  true  and  the  unreal;  custom,  on 
the  one  hand;  and,  on  the  other,  purity,  sim- 
plicity, and  nature.  The  latter  was  especially 
attractive,  as  they  came  in  the  guise  of  Eleanor 
Ogilvie. 

Now,  startled,  awed  by  the  day's  event,  and 
brought,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  within  the 
presence  of  death — at  least  of  sudden  death — 
Lynedon  had  put  off,  for  a  while,  the  fictions 
which  constituted  his  outer  self,  and  there  was 
something  powerfully  repugnant  in  the  affecta- 
tions with  which  Mrs.  Lancaster  broke  in  upon 
the  current  of  thoughts,  deeper  and  purer  than 
tho  young  mai,  had  indulged  in  for  a  long  season. 

"Thank  heaven,  there  are  the  carriage- 
wheels,"  cried  Mrs.  Lancaster,  who  had  been 
unpatiently  beating  time  on  the  window-panes  | 


apology 
,  allow  m 


foi 
me  tc» 


you  are  quite  ready,  Mr.  Lynedon." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I  do  not  go  just  yet." 

"  Not  go !  And,  pray,  what  is  the  reason  of 
this  sudden  and  most  disinterested  resolution?" 
said  Mrs.  Lancaster,  with  a  smile  of  such  iron- 
ical  meaning,  that  Paul  Lynedon's  brown  cheek 
grew  many  shades  deeper  with  annoyance.  But, 
as  was  customary  with  him,  he  only  showed  his 
vexation  by  answering  in  a  tone  more  firm  and 
haughty  than  usual. 

"Mrs.  Lancaster,  my  only  reason  is  one  so 
trifling,  that  it  hardly  deserves  your  attention 
Merely,  that  having  received  much  courtesy  in 
this  house,  I  wish  to  return  it,  by  inquiring  if, 
in  this  time  of  confusion  and  anxiety,  I  can  in 
any  way  be  of  use ;  and  so,  with  an  a 
troubling  you  with  this  explanation 
lead  you  to  your  carriage." 

Verily,  the  stateliness  of  the  whole  Lynedon 
race,  for  a  century  back,  was  compressed  in  Paul, 
when  he  chose  to  exhibit  that  peculiar  manner. 
The  petite,  graceful  Mrs.  Lancaster  shrank  into 
nothing  beside  the  overwhelming  courtesy  of  his 
demeanor,  and  they  were  silently  descending  the 
staircase,  when  Eleanor  Ogilvie  appeared. 

"How  very  unpleasant !"  and  "how  fortu- 
nate!" cried  Mrs.  Lancaster,  in  a  breath,  the 
former  being,  of  course,  an  aside.  But  a  glance 
at  Eleanor's  face,  which,  though  a  degree  paler 
than  ordinary,  was  perfectly  composed,  freed 
the  departing  guest  from  the  apprehension  of  a 
scene,  and  she  re-ascended  to  the  drawing-room. 

"My  dearest  Eleanor,  I  would  fain  have 
saved  us  all  the  pain  of  an  adieu — these  most 
afflicting  circumstances — your  feelings  —  my 
own ;"  and  here  Mrs.  Lancaster  took  out  her 
pocket-handkerchief. 

But  Eleanor  neither  wept,  nor  made  any  pre- 
tense of  doing  so. 

"  Thank  you  for  your  sympathy,"  she  answer- 
ed ;  "  and  since  I  see  you  are  going,  may  I  hope 
that  you  will  excus*  an  omission  which — " 

"Excuse!  My  dear  young  friend,  I  would 
have  remained  could  I  have  been  any  comfort ; 
but  I  thought  the  kindest  act  was  to  intrude  no 
longer  on  your  sorrow." 

Eleanor  offered  no  word  of  dissent  to  this  re- 
mark, and  Mrs.  Lancaster  felt  so  completely  at 
a  loss  that  she  again  had  recourse  to  her  pocket- 
handkerchief. 

"  You  will  bear  my  adieus  and  condolence  to 
your  aunt  and  to  poor,  dear  Miss  Ogilvie,  who 
must  be  sadly  afflicted." 

"Yes,"  said  Eleanor,  briefly.  She  suffered 
Mrs.  Lancaster's  vail  to  sweep  her  cheek  in  a 


THE  OGILVIES. 


salute,  and  then  held  out  her  hand  to  Paul  Lyne- 
don,  who  had  stood  by  in  perfect  silence. 

He  took  her  hand,  but  said  quietly,  "  I  am  not 
bidding  adieu,  for  I  do  not  return  to  town  until 
night ;  perhaps  I  may  be  of  some  service." 

*"  You  are  very  kind,"  was  Eleanor's  reply, 
"but  we  will  not  encroach  on  your  good  offices, 
there  is  no  need." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  have  been  telling  him, 
Miss  Eleanor;  he  will  only  be  in  the  way;  you 
had  better  come  with  us,  Lynedon,"  said  Mrs. 
Lancaster. 

Paul  never  answered  her,  but  raised  his  eyes 
to  Eleanor ;  his  look  was  so  full  of  earnest  feel- 
ing, sympathy,  and  sincere  kindliness,  that  she 
was  touched.  "  You  will  let  me  stay,  if  I  can 
be  of  use  to  any  one  here,"  he  said,  gently, 
when  Mrs.  Lancaster  walked  forward,  in  ill-con- 
cealed impatience. 

"  Thank  you,  yes ;  do  as  you  will,"  answered 
Eleanor,  while  the  tears  which  affected  sym- 
pathy would  never  have  drawn  forth,  confessed 
the  influence  of  real  feeling.  The  traces  of 
this  emotion  were  still  on  her  cheek  when  Paul 
Lynedon  returned  to  the  room.  They  went  to 
his  very  heart,  for  men  to  whom  tears  are  un- 
known seem  most  susceptible  to  their  power  in 
women.  There  is  probably  hardly  any  man  liv- 
ing who  does  not  feel  his  heart  drawn  to  the  girl 
he  lovos,  or  even  is-  only  beginning  to  love,  if  he 
sees  her  under  the  influence  of  any  grief  deep 
ftnougb  to  call  forth  tears. 

So  it  was  that  when  Lynedon  came  again  into 
Eleanoi  's  presence,  his  manner  was  so  subdued, 
so  tender,  so  free  from  all  affectation,  that  she 
had  never  felt  more  inclined  to  regard  him  with 
friendly  feelings.  That  she  could  either  inspire 
or  return  a  warmer  sentiment,  had  not  once  en- 
tered Eleanor's  mind  with  respect  to  Paul  Lyne- 
don ;  therefore,  her  manner  was  always  frank, 
open,  and  kindly,  and  now  even  gentler  than 
usual. 

"This  is  kind  of  you — very  kind,"  she  said, 
giving  him  her  hand.  He  pressed  it  warmly, 
as  a  friend  might,  and  then  let  it  go ;  he  dared 
not,  he  could  not  suffer  the  expression  of  earthly 
love  to  intrude  at  such  a  time. 

"I  feel  very  much  with  you — indeed  I  do," 
said  Paul's  low,  musical  tones ;  "  and  that  dear 
child,  poor  Katharine,  it  was  a  terrible  shock 
for  her." 

"  Yes,  Katharine  loved  him  very  dearly,  and 
she  was  the  darling  of  his  heart.  He  gave  her 
her  name,  and  she  was  his  god-child,  too.  Poor 
grandpapa !  I  think  he  loved  Katharine  better 
than  any  one  in  the  world.  How  strange  that 
no  one  should  have  been  present  when  he  died, 
except  you  and  herself.  Did  he  say  any  thing, 
or  seem  to  suffer  ?  Poor  Katharine  has  told  us 
nothing ;  indeed,  she  has  been  weeping  inces- 
santly ever  since." 

Then  Paul  Lynedon  related  the  scene  in  the 
study,  and  the  strange  delusion  under  which  Sir 
James  had  died;  a  common  sympathy,  though 
neither  was  aware  of  it,  made  Paul  speak  and 
Eleanor  listen  with  deep  interest  to  the  touching 
memory  of  a  long-past  love. 

"And  he  remembered  her  even  then,  this 
Katharine  Mayhew.  How  strange  !"  murmured 
Gleanor. 

"  It  is  not  strange,"  said  Paul,  earnestly ;  "  no 
man  ever  forgets  the  woman  whom  he  first  loved. 


The  storms  of  a  lifetime  may  intervene,  but  thaf 
such  first  true  love  should  pass  away — never, 
never!" 

Eleanor's  lips  trembled,  her  bosom  heaved, 
and  the  voice  of  her  soul,  even  more  than  that 
of  her  tongue,  echoed  the  "  never !"  It  was  as 
the  one  amen  to  the  universal  love-orison  which 
every  young  heart  breathes  at  its  first  awaken- 
ing. But  how  rarely  does  each  life's  history 
work  out  the  fulfillment  of  the  prayer.  And  not 
only  do  fate's  mysteries,  but  the  willfulness, 
change,  and  weakness  of  humanity  itself  cast  a 
shadow  between  it  and  that  blessed  "  never" 
which,  while  still  believed  in,  is  strength  and 
hope ;  for  love  is  no  longer  divine  to  us  when 
we  find  out,  or  only  begin  to  suspect,  that  it  is  not 
eternal. 

Lynedon  watched  Eleanor's  evident  emotion 
with  a  thrill  of  rapture  which  he  could  hardly 
conceal.  He  interpreted  all  as  a  lover  would 
fain  do.  Her  lightest  word,  her  most  passing 
look,  might  then  have  drawn  from  him  the  con- 
fession of  his  feelings,  and  would  surely  have 
done  so,  despite  the  time  and  place,  had  there 
been  in  her  an  answering  love,  thus  involuntarily 
betraying  itself.  But,  when  Eleanor  lifted  up 
her  face,  the  look  which  met  his  was  so  calm, 
so  unconstrained  in  its  maidenly  frankness,  that 
the  most  enthusiastic,  self-deceiving  lover  would 
not  have  discovered  in  it  the  secret  which  he 
might  desire  to  see.  Paul  Lynedon  shrank  back 
into  himself,  and  the  passionate  words  which  had 
risen  from  his  heart  almost  to  his  lips  died  away 
in  the  ordinary  expressions  of  feeling  called  forth 
by  the  occasion.  And  even  these  were  so  cold 
that  Eleanor  seemed  surprised.  She  looked  in 
his  face,  which  was  pale  and  agitated,  and  her 
womanly  sympathy  at  once  supplied  the  imag- 
ined cause. 

"How  ill  you  look,  Mr.  Lynedon,"  said  she, 
while  her  gentle  tone  and  kind  eyes  expressed 
more  than  her  words.  "  We  have  been  thinking 
so  much  of  ourselves,  and  have  forgotten  how 
much  this  painful  day  must  have  affected  you. 
Sit  down,  and  let  me  bring  you  a  glass  of  wine. 
I  will  have  no  refusal." 

Paul  had  no  power  to  refuse.  When  Eleanor 
brought  him  the  wine  he  took  it  from  her  hand, 
drank  it,  and  then  leaned  his  head  against  the 
wall,  incapable  of  uttering  one  word.  Eleanor 
stood  by  him  with  a  feeling  of  strange  interest, 
mingled  with  compassion.  At  last  he  roused 
himself,  and  said,  with  a  faint  smile — 

"You  must  pardon  me." 

"  There  is  no  need ;  it  was  a  trying  scene— 
no  wonder  it  affected  you.  I  often  think  that 
men  can  less  bear  to  come  within  the  shadow  of 
death  than  can  women.  It  is  our  fate— it  is  we 
who  have  to  meet  the  terrible  one  face  to  face  ! 
No  matter  how  regardless  a  man  may  be  during 
his  life  of  all  female  ties,  it  is  from  mother,  wife, 
sister,  or  daughter,  that  he  will  seek  the  last 
offices  of  kindness.  We  leave  wordly  pleasures 
to  you,  but  you  look  to  us  for  comfort  at  the 
last."  ' 

Eleanor  had  said  all  this — a  long  speech  it 
was,  too,  for  one  of  her  generally  undemonstrat- 
ive character — with  the  kindly  intention  of  giv- 
ing Paul  time  to  recover  himself.  When  she 
ceased,  she  found  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her  face 
with  an  intense,  earnest  gaze.  But  it  was  »ot 
so  much  that  of  a  lover  toward  his  mispress,  as 


THE  OGILVIES. 


Ihe  upraised,  almost  adoring  look  which  a  Cath- 
olic worshiper  might  turn  to  his  saint ;  and  there 
was  a  sweetness  and  benignity  almost  mother- 
like  in  the  placid  face  that  bent  over  Paul  Lyne- 
don, and  assuaged  the  troubled  waters  of  his 
spirit  until  they  sunk  into  a  calm. 

"  Have  I  talked  to  you  until  you  are  wearied  ?" 
said  Eleanor,  with  one  of  her  peculiar  shadowy 
smiles.  "  It  is  some  time  since  I  have  said  so 
much  on  my  own  account.  How  much  longer 
would  you  listen,  I  wonder?" 

"  Forever !  forever !"  muttered  Paul  Lynedon. 

"What  were  you  saying?"  inquired  the  un- 
conscious Eleanor. 

Paul  recollected  himself  at  once. 

"  That  you  are  very  kind  and  thoughtful — just 
like  a  woman,  and  that  I  am  ashamed  to  have 
given  you  so  much  trouble." 

"Then  you  feel  quite  well,  now?  If  so,  I 
will  go  up  to  see  poor  Katharine." 

"Not  yet,  not  yet,"  Lynedon  hastily  inter- 
posed. "  You  were  to  tell  me  if  there  is  any 
thing  I  can  do  in  London — any  business  to  ar- 
range; or,  if  not  to-day,  can  not  I  ride  back 
here  to-morrow  and  see?  You  do  not  know 
what  pleasure  it  would  give  me  to  do  any  thing 
for  you — that  is,  for  the  family." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it — I  know  how  good  you  are," 
said  Eleanor,  with  a  look  full  of  kindness;  "but 
my  uncle  and  Hugh  are  both  at  home." 

"Nay,  your  brother  is  out  ten  miles  off  in  the 
forest.  Shall  I  ride  over  to  meet  him,  and  in- 
form  him  of  this  sad  event?" 

"Thank  you,  but  we  have  already  sent:  in- 
deed, Mr.  Lynedou,  there  is  really  no  need  for 
the  exercise  of  your  kindness ;  and  since,  to  be 
frank  with  you,  my  uncle  and  aunt  will  like  best 
to  see  no  one  except  Hugh  and  myself,  I  will 
positively  send  you  away." 

"  But  I  may  come  to-morrow,  or  the  next  day, 
only  to  inquire  after  you  all;  and  perhaps  see 
yourself  or  your  brother  for  a  few  minutes.  It 
will  be  a  satisfaction  to  me ;  and  Mrs.  Lancas- 
ter, too,  will  be  glad — " 

Eleanor's  countenance  changed  a  little — a 
very  little — she  was  so  sincere,  that  even  a 
passing  thought  ever  cast  some  reflected  shadow 
on  her  face ;  her  companion  saw  it,  and  hastened 
to  remove  the  impression. 

"You  must  not  judge  of  me  by — that  is,  I 
mean  to  say  that  a  man  is  not  accountable  for 
the  faults  of  his  friends,  or — or — acquaintance." 
There  was  some  confusion  in  his  speech,  which 
was  not  removed  by  Eleanor's  total  silence. 

"I  wish  you  to  think  well  of  me — indeed  I 
do,"  the  young  man  continued;  "I  know  there 
is  much  in  me  wrong ;  but  then  I  have  been  left 
to  myself  since  boyhood ;  for  years  have  not  had 
a  home,  a  mother  or  a  sister,  and  so  I  have  grown 
more  worldly  than  I  ought  to  be.  For  this  rea- 
son, now,  in  going  away,  I  feel  how  much  I  owe 
for  the  pleasant  and  good  influence  of  this  week 
to  you  and  to  others." 

Paul  was  treading  on  dangerous  ground,  but 
once  more  Eleanor's  composure  saved  him. 

"  I  am  glad  we  have  made  you  happy ;  in- 
deed, we  wished  to  do  so,  Katharine  and  I ;  and 
it  has  been  a  pleasant  week  to  us  all,  but  for  its 
sad  ending.  And  now,  Mr.  Lynedon,  since  I 
am  the  only  one  of  the  household  who  can  take 
leave  of  you,  let  me  thank  you  again  on  the  part 
of  all  and  sty  good-by." 


"Good-by,"  repeated  Paul,  as  n<?  Kngenjirrly 
opened  the  door  for  her,  and  watched  her  light 
figure  ascend  the  winding  staircase.  When  she 
disappeared,  his  breast  relieved  itself  with  a 
heavy  sigh.  Paul  rode  home,  fully  impressed 
with  the  conviction  that  the  star  of  his  life,  pres- 
ent and  to  come,  was  Eleanor  Ogilvie. 

There  was  a  degree  of  irresolution  in  the 
character  of  Lynedon  that  caused  him  often  to 
be  swayed  against  his  will.  With  him  the  past 
or  the  future  were  always  subservient  to  the  in- 
fluence of  the  present.  So,  when  he  had  ridden 
to  Summerwood  three  times  in  the  first  week 
after  Sir  James's  death,  and  thereupon  borne  a 
considerable  number  of  Mrs.  Lancaster's  smiles 
and  inuendoes,  he  began  to  feel  that  there  was 
some  cause  for  the  neglect,  of  which  she  accused 
her  guest;  and  as  the  charms  of  Summerwood 
grew  dim,  in  the  attractions  of  successive  intel- 
lectual dissipations — for  it  is  due  to  Paul  to  say 
that  no  others  could  have  any  influence  over  his 
fine  mind — it  so  chanced  that,  for  the  next  fort- 
night, he  never  went  near  the  Ogilvie  family. 


CHAPTER  X. 

The  transition  .from  sorrow  to  joy  is  easiest  in  pur* 
minds,  as  the  true  diamond,  when  moistened  by  the  breath 
recovers  its  luster  sooner  than  the  false. 

JEAN  PAUL. 
He  stood  beside  me 

The  embodied  vision  of  the  brightest  dream 
That  like  a  dawn,  heralds  the  day  of  life : 
The  shadow  of  his  presence  made  my  world 
A  paradise.    All  familiar  things  he  touched, 
All  common  words  he  spake,  became  to  me 
Like  forms  and  sounds  of  a  diviner  world. 
He  was  as  is  the  sun  in  his  fierce  youth, 
As  terrible  and  lovely  as  the  tempest. 
He  came — and  went — and  left  me  what  I  am. 

SHELLEY. 

KATHARINE  OGILVIE  sat  in  the  room  whick 
had  so  Jong  been  her  grandfather's.  It  was  nowt 
by  her  own  desire,  virtually  resigned  to  her. 
None  of  his  own  children  had  loved,  and  beec 
loved  by  Sir  James  Ogilvie,  like  this  young 
girl,  who  had  sprung  up  in  the  third  generation 
— a  late-given  flower,  to  cast  sweetness  over 
his  old  age.  So  Katharine  seemed  to  have  a 
right,  beyond  all  others,  to  his  room,  and  every 
thing  that  had  belonged  to  him.  When  she  re- 
covered from  the  grief  and  agitation  which  for 
some  days  had  amounted  to  real  illness,  she  took 
possession  of  the  study  without  any  opposition, 
except  that  her  mother's  anxious  tenderness 
feared  lest  the  scene  of  waning  life  and  awfully 
sudden  death  might  have  a  painful  effect  on  a 
mind  so  young. 

But  Katharine  seemed  to  have  arisen  from 
this  trance  of  pain  and  suffering  with  a  new 
character.  During  that  week  of  illness  she  had 
merged  from  the  child  into  the  woman.  A 
change  had  passed  over  her — the  life-change, 
wherein  the  heart  awakes  as  out  of  sleep,  to 
feel,  with  a  terrible  vividness,  the  reality  of  those 
pulses  which  had  faintly  stirred  in  its  dreams. 

Katharine  knew  that  the  power,  of  which  she 
had  read  and  mused,  had  come  upon  her  own 
soul.  She  felt  in  herself  the  truth  of  what  she 
had  seen  shadowed  forth  in  romance  and  song 
— she  knew  that  she  loved. 

It  is  with  a  sensation  almost  amounting  t« 
fear  that  a  young  maiden  first  discovers  the  real 


28 


THE  OGTLVIES. 


presence  of  the  life-influence  in  ner  heart — when  j 
she  feels  that  her  existence  no  longer  centers  in  ; 
itself  alone,  but  has  another  added  to  it,  which 
becomes,  and  will  become  more  and  more,  its  j 
breath,  its  very  soul.  Katharine,  who,  in  her  I 
unconscious  simplicity,  had  given  herself  up  so  ' 
entirely  to  this  pleasant  reverie,  of  which  Paul 
Lynedon  was  the  presiding  spirit,  almost  shud- 
dered when  the  light  broke  in  upon  her  and  told 
her  that  dream  was  her  life.  Nor,  with  her, 
was  love  that  girlish  fancy  which  is  born  of  idle- 
ness, nourished  by  vanity,  and  dies  in  a  few 
months,  of  sheer  inanition,  to  revive  again  in 
some  new  phase,  and,  thus  transferred  from  ob- 
ject to  object,  lives  out  its  scores  of  petty  lives, 
until  it  fairly  wears  itself  out,  or  settles,  at  the 
call  of  duty  or  interest,  within  the  calm  bound- 
aries of  matrimonial  necessity.  Words  can  not 
too  much  ridicule  or  condemn  this  desecration. 
But  a  pure-hearted  woman's  sincere,  true,  and 
life-long  love,  awakened  by  what  either  is,  or 
what  she  deems  to  be,  noble  and  perfect  in  her 
ideal,  and,  as  such,  made  the  secret  religion  of 
her  heart,  whereon  no  eye  may  look,  yet  which 
JB  the  hidden  spring  influencing  all  her  thoughts 
and  actions — this  love  is  no  shame,  but  a  thing 
most  sacred,  too  solemn  to  be  lightly  spoken  of, 
too  exalted  to  need  idle  pity,  too  holy  to  awaken 
any  feeling  save  reverence. 

And  such  a  love  was  Katharine's  for  Paul 
Lynedon. 

She  sat  in  her  grandfather's  chair,  her  brow 
resting  against  the  same  cushion  where  in  death 
had  fallen  the  aged  head  now  pillowed  in  eternal 
repose.  Katharine  turned  away  from  the  light, 
and  closed  her  eyes.  Her  hands  lay  crossed  on 
her  knee,  tl>eir  extreme  and  almost  sickly  white- 
ness contrasting  with  her  black  dress.  She  was 
no  longer  an  invalid ;  but  a  dreaminess  and  lan- 
guor still  hung  over  her,  giving  theft  own  expres- 
sion to  her  face  and  attitude.  It  wras  a  pleasure 
to  sit  still  and  think — one  so  great  that  she  often 
suffered  her  parents  and  Hugh  to  suppose  her 
asleep,  rather  than  be  disturbed  by  conversation. 

The  room  was  so  quiet,  that  she  might  have 
been  alone ;  but  Hugh,  who  ever  since  her  re- 
covery, had  followed  her  like  a  shadow,  sat  at 
the  window,  making  his  eternal  flies — at  least, 
that  was  his  excuse  for  remaining  with  her  in 
the  study,  but  he  oftener  looked  at  Katharine 
than  at  his  work.  So  silent  and  quiet  was  he, 
that  she  had  entirely  forgotten  his  presence, 
until,  waking  from  her  reverie  with  a  half-sup- 
pressed sigh,  she  saw  Hugh  creep  softly  to  her 
ehair. 

"  I  thought  you  were  asleep,  Katharine ;  are 
you  awake  now  ?"  he  said,  affectionately. 

Katharine's  answer  was  a  smile.  She  felt  very 
grateful  to  Hugh,  who  had  been  her  chief  com- 
panion for  some  days,  and  had  striven  in  every 
way  to  amuse  her.  He  had  given  up  the  finest 
hunt  of  the  season  to  stay  at  home  with  her, 
and,  after  in  vain  trying  to  interest  her  in  the 
adventures  of  every  fox  dispatched  during  the 
winter,  had  finally  offered  to  read  aloud  to  her 
out  of  any  book  she  liked,  provided  it  was  not 
poetry.  But  the  time  was  gone  by  vhen  the 
lingering  childishness  of  Katharine's  nature 
would  sympathize  with  those  purely  physical 
delights  of  exercise  and  out-door  amusement 
which  constituted  Hugh's  world.  She  tried  to 
hide  this  from  him,  and  attempted  to  enter  into 


every  thing  as  usual;  but  it  would  not  do.  The 
day  lagged  veiy  heavily,  and  though  Hugh  was 
too  good-natured  to  allude  to  the  hunt,' it  re- 
curred sorrowfully  to  his  mind,  as  he  saw  from 
the  study  windows  a  few  moving  specks  of  scar- 
let sweeping  along  the  distant  country.  At  last, 
when  a  horse's  feet  were  heard  up  the  avenue, 
he  could  rest  quiet  no  longer. 

"  It  is  surely  one  of  the  men  from  the  hunt ;  I 
will  just  go  and  speak  to  him,  and  ask  him  to 
have  some  lunch.  You  will  not  mind  being  left 
alone  for  a  few  minutes,  dear  Katharine  ?" 

"  Oh,  no  ! — not  at  all !  You  are  only  too 
kind  to  me,  cousin  Hugh;  pray  go,  and  enjoy 
yourself." 

The  door  closed  on  him,  and  Katharine  leaned 
back  in  quiet,  dreamy  solitude.  She  thought 
of  her  grandfather — how  soon  every  memory  of 
him  had  passed  away  from  the  household — how 
even  the  long  life  of  eighty  years,  with  all  its 
ties  and  all  its  events,  had  become  like  a  shadow 
— had  crumbled  into  nothing  at  the  touch  of 
death — so  that  in  the  world  not  even  a  month's 
void  was  left  by  the  human  soul  now  departed. 
And  then  Katharine's  mind  reverted  to  the 
closing  scene  of  his  life :  the  old  man's  vague, 
wandering  words,  which  she  felt  referred  to 
some  memory  of  his  youth,  which  he  had  strange- 
ly connected  with  her,  not  knowing  that  the 
universal  chord  thus  touched  in  the  shadowy 
past  had  found  its  echo  in  the  present ;  that  the 
impulse  swayed  the  spirit  then  passing  away 
and  that  just  entering  upon  its  world-struggles. 
And  amidst  the  solemn  mournfulness  of  this 
death-vision  came  the  remembered  face  of  Paul 
Lynedon — the  gentle  sympathy  of  his  look,  the 
touch  of  his  hand,  the  strange  symbolizing  of 
their  united  fate — for  so  it  might  prove — who 
could  tell  ?  And  Katharine  gave  herself  up  to 
the  wild  love-reverie  of  early  youth,  until  the 
one  whose  influence,  magician-like,  had  peopled 
her  life  with  such  glorious  imaginings,  stood  by 
her  side. 

Katharine  had  never  seen  Paul  Lynedon  since 
the  moment  when,  half  insensible,  she  had  felt 
herself  borne  in  his  arms  from  the  chamber  of 
death.  Now  he  came  so  suddenly  into  her  pres- 
ence, that  at  the  sight  of  him  her  heart  seemed 
to  suspend  its  beatings.  Not  a  word  came  from 
her  colorless  lips,  and  the  hand  Paul  took  between 
his  own  felt  like  marble. 

he 

you. 

too — how  foolish  it  was  of  me." 

Katharine  drooped  her  head,  and  burst  into 
tears. 

Paul's  kindly  feelings  were  roused.  He  wait 
ed  until  Katharine's  emotion  had  somewhat  ex- 
hausted itself,  and  then  laid  her  head  back  on 
the  cushion,  smoothing  her  soft  black  hair  with 
his  hand,  as  gently  and  soothingly  as  an  elder 
brother  or  father  might  have  done. 

"Poor  Katharine,  dear  Katharine,  you  have 
suffered  much ;  but  we  will  not  think  of  it  any 
more  now.  Let  us  talk  about  something  else, 
and  I  will  sit  by  you  until  you  have  quite  re- 
covered yourself.  You  see,  the  first  thing  I  did 
was  to  come  here  to  see  you.  Your  cousin 
Hugh  told  me  he  had  left  you  in  the  study." 

A  happy  smile  broke  through  Katharine's 
tears,  and  a  faint  color  flitted  over  her  cheek* 


THE  OG1LV1ES. 


The  words  were  very  tender — made  still  more 
BO  by  the  inexpressible  sweetness  of  the  tone. 
What  music  there  was  at  times  in  Paul  Lyne- 
don's  voice  !  No  wonder  it  should  echo  in  that 
poor  self-deceiving  heart  like  a  celestial  melody. 

"  I  have  not  yet  inquired  after  your  father  and 
mother ;  they  are  well,  I  hope  ?  May  I  not  see 
them  to-day?" 

"  Yes,  certainly;"  said  Katharine. 

"  And — and — your  cousin — Miss  Eleanor,  I 
mean?"  Paul's  head  here  turned  toward  the 
fire,  and  his  fingers  busied  themselves  in  playing 
with  a  loose  tassel  on  the  arm-chair. 

"  Eleanor  is  very  well.  I  had  a  letter  from 
her  to-day,"  Katharine  answered. 

"A  letter!" 

"  Yes ;  she  was  sent  for  a  week  since  by  her 
old  friend,  Mrs.  Breynton.  She  told  me  to  say 
how  sorry  she  was  not  to  bid  you  adieu  5  in- 
deed, we  half  expected  you  every  day  last 
week." 

A  slight  exclamation  of  vexed  surprise  rose 
to  Paul's  lips,  but  he  suppressed  it,  and  only 
tore  the  tassel  into  small  bits.  No  indication 
of  what  was  in  his  mind  conveyed  itself  to  Kath- 
arine's ;  she  sat  with  her  sweet,  downcast  eyes 
and  trembling  lips,  drinking  in  nothing  but  deep 
Happiness. 

So  habitual  was  Paul  Lynedon's  command 
over  his  voice  and  features,  that  when  he  turned 
round  there  was  no  shade  of  disappointment 
visible  on  his  countenance — at  least,  only  suf- 
ficient to  give  a  joyful  thrill  to  Katharine's  un- 
suspecting heart,  as  he  said — 

"  How  sorry  I  am — really  quite  vexed.  You 
must  have  thought  me  very  unkind  and  forgetful 
to  stay  away  a  whole  fortnight." 

Katharine  did  not  know  whether  to  say  yes 
or  no.  She  was  in  a  rapturous  dream,  whose 
light  flooded  and  dazzled  all  her  thoughts  and 
senses. 

"  But  you  will  forgive  me,  dear  Katharine, 
and  ask  your  cousin  to  do  the  same  when  you 
write  ?  Will  that  be  soon  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  we  write  very  often,  Eleanor  and 

"How  pleasant,"  said  Paul  Lynedon;  while 
his  thoughts  flew  far  away,  and  the  few  words 
with  which  he  tried  to  keep  up  the  conversation 
only  sufficed  to  make  it  more  confused  and 
broken.  Katharine  never  noticed  how  absent 
his  manner  grew.  She  was  absorbed  in  the 
happiness  of  sitting  near  him,  hearing  him ' 
speak,  and  stealing  glances,  now  and  then,  at 
that  calm,  intellectual  face,  which  to  her  seemed 
even  more  beautiful,  in  its  thoughtful  composure 
than  when  lighted  up  by  animation;  and  per* 
haps,  had  she  considered  it  at  all,  his  silence 
would  have  only  seemed  another  token  of  the 
blessed  secret  which  she  fancied  she  read  in  the 
deep  tenderness  of  his  words  and  manner. 

To  him  the  time  passed  rather  wearily — it 
was  a  duty  of  kindness  and  consideration — at 
first  pleasant,  then  somewhat  dull,  and  possibly 
a  relief  when  fulfilled.  To  her,  the  bliss  of  a 
year,  nay,  a  life-time,  was  comprised  in  that  one 
half-hour.  At  the  moment  it  seemed  a  dizzy 
trance  of  confused  joy,  formless  and  vague,  but 
in  after-hours  it  grew  distinct :  each  word,  each 
look,  each  gesture,  being  written  on  her  heart 
and  brain  in  letters  of  golden  lijjht,  until  at  last 
they  turned  to  lire 


Hugh  came  jn,  looking  not  particularly  pleased. 

Though  he  had  a  strong  suspicion  that  his  sister 

Eleanor  was  Paul  Lynedon's  chief  attraction  at 

Summerwood,  he  never  felt  altogether  free  from 

a -vague  jealousy  on  Katharine's  account.     But 

the  warmth  with  which  his  supposed  rival  m«t 

him  quite  re-assured  the  simple-hearted,  good* 

j  natured  Hugh ;  and  while  the  two  young  m/ui 

!  interchanged  greetings,  Katharine  crept  away 

to  Her  own  room. 

There,  when  quite  alone;  the  full  tide  of  joy 
was  free  to  flow.     With  an  emotion  of  almost 
j  child-like,  rapture  she  clasped  her  hands  above 
her  head. 

"  It  may  come — that  bliss !  It  may  come  yet  I" 
she  murmured ;  and  then  she  repeated  his  words 
—the  words  which  now  ever  haunted  her  like  a 
perpetual  music  —  "J  almost  love  Katharine 
Ogilvie!"  "It  may  be  true— it  must  be — how 
happy  am  I !" 

And  as  she  stood  with  her  clasped  hands 
pressed  on  her  bosom,  her  head  thrown  back, 
the  lips  parted,  the  face  beaming,  and  her  whole 
form  dilated  with  joy,  Katharine  caught  a  sight 
of  her  figure  in  the  opposite  mirror.  She  was 
startled  to  see  herself  so  lovely.  There  is  no 
beauty  like  happiness,  especially  the  happiness 
of  love.  It  often  seems  to  invest  with  a  halo  of 
radiance  the  most  ordinary  face  and  form.  No 
wonder  was  it,  that,  under  its  influence,  Kath- 
arine hardly  knew  her  own  semblance. 
,  But,  in  a  moment,  a  delicious  consciousness 
of  beauty  stole  over  her.  It  was  not  vanity,  but 
a  wild  gladness, .that  thereby  she  might  be  more 
worthy  of  him.  She  drew  nearer ;  she  gazed 
almost  lovingly  on  the  bright  young  face  reflected 
there,  not  as  if  it  were  her  own,  but  as  some- 
thing fair  and  precious  in  his  sight,  which  ac- 
cordingly became  most  dear  to  hers.  She  looked 
into  the  depths  of  the  dark,  clear  eyes.  Ah ! 
one  day  it  might  be  his  joy  to  do  the  same. 
She  marked  the  graceful  curves  of  the  round, 
white  hand — the  same  hand  which  had  rested 
in  his — perhaps  the  time  might  come  when  it 
would  rest  there  forever.  The  thought  made  it 
most  beautiful,  most  hallowed  in  her  eyes. 

Simple,  childlike  Katharine — a  child  in  all  but 
love — if  thou  could'st  have  died  in  that  blessed 
dream  ! 

The  sudden  delirium  of  joy  passed  away,  and 
left  a  still  gladness,  which  lighted  up  her  eyes 
and  trembled  in  her  lips,  making  her  whole 
countenance  beautiful.  As  she  went  down  to 
dinner,  she  passed  the  open  door  of  the  study, 
and  entered  it  for  a  moment.  How  changed  it 
seemed  ! — the  memorial  altar  of  Death  had  be- 
come the  s-anctuary  of  Love.  A  little,  Katha- 
rine's heart  smote  her,  and  a  few  tears  fell, 
awakened  by  one  sudden  thought  of  him  who 
was  gone.  But  how  could  the  dear,  yet  now 
faint  memory  of  the  dead,  contend  with  the 
fresh,  glad  fount  of  youth  and  first  love  that 
sprung  up  in  her  heart,  filling  it  with  sunshine  and 
singing  evermore ;  so  that  the  light  and  the 
music  shut  out  all  sorrowful  sights  and  sounds, 
or  changed  them  into  joy.  It  could  not  be ;  it 
never  is  so  in  this  world.  And  Nature,  who 
makes  the  greenest  grass  and  the  brightest  flow, 
ers  to  grow  over  graves,  thus  teaches  us  that,  in 
this  ever  renewed  current  of  life,  there  is  deep 
wisdom  and  infinite  love. 

Paul  Lynedon  staid  all  the  day.     It  was  one 


50 


THE  OGILVIES. 


of  quiet  pleasui  e  to  every  one.  Mr. — or,  as  Paul 
found  some  difficulty  in  calling  him,  Sir  Robert 
^Ogilvie  was  glad  to  have  a  talk  about  politics, 
and  his  lady  was  delighted  that  a  visitor  had  at 
last  arrived  to  break  the  formal  gloom  of  a  house- 
hold over  which  death  had  passed,  but  scarcely 
sorrow.  Hugh  had  an  engagement  elsewhere. 
This  fact,  while  Sir  Robert  took  his  after-dinner 
nap,  cost  Lady  Ogilvie  a  long  apology,  which 
her  guest  thought  infinitely  more  wearisome  than 
the  circumstance  for  which  it  was  meant  to 
atone. 

"  Though  casting  no  reproach  on  your  neph- 
ew's agreeable  society,"  said  the  polite  Lyne- 
don, "  I  assure  you,  my  dear  Lady  Ogilvie,  that 
I  shall  be  quite  content,  and,  indeed,  gratified, 
to  have  your  daughter  all  to  myself  for  a  whole 
evening,  such  good  friends  as  we  are.  Is  it  not 
so,  Katharine?"  and  he  took  the  young  girl's 
hand  with  the  affectionate  familiarity  which  he 
had  established  between  them.  How  bright 
how  joyful,  were  the  answering  blush  and  smile  ! 

Paul  Lynedon  saw  both.  He  was  flattered  at 
having  so  completely  conquered  the  shyness  of 
this  young  creature,  who,  in  the  intervals  of  his 
sudden  passion  for  Eleanor,  had  at  once  interest- 
ed, amused,  and  puzzled  him.  He  could  not  but 
perceive  the  admiring  reverence  of  himself  which 
her  whole  manner  unconsciously  showed ;  and  a 
proud  man  likes  to  be  worshiped  and  looked  up 
to,  especially  by  the  other  sex.  To  be  sure, 
Katharine  was  still  a  mere  child ;  but  there  was 
something  even  in  the  devotion  of  a  young  girl 
that  gratified  his  self-esteem  and  love  of  appro- 
bation— both  very  strong  in  Paul  Lynedon. 

So  his  manner  toward  Katharine  took  a  deep- 
er and  tenderer  meaning — more  so  than  even  he 
intended  it  should.  Though  the  other  fair  image, 
which  he  fancied  so  dear,  still  lingered  in  his 
heart,  and  he  was  haunted  all  that  evening  with 
shadowy  visions  of  Eleanor,  still  he  talked  to 
Katharine  as  men  will  idly  talk,  never  dreaming 
that  every  low,  affectionate  tone — every  speak- 
ing look,  thoughtlessly  lavished  on  an  interesting 
girl,  went  deep  to  the  most  passionate  recesses 
of  a  woman's  heart. 

After  tea,  Paul's  eyes  wandered  to  the  little 
recess  where  harp  and  piano  stood.  Perhaps  his 
lover-like  fancy  conjured  up  there  the  sweet, 
calm  face  and  bending  figure  of  Eleanor 

"You  feel  dull  without  music.  Is  not  that 
what  you  are  thinking  of?"  inquired  Katharine, 
timidly. 

A  tacit  prevarication,  by  which  more  tender 
consciences  than  Paul's  often  deem  it  no  wrong 
to  compromise  truth,  enabled  him  to  answer, 
"  Yes ;  I  was  wishing  to  ask  you  to  sing,  but  did 
not  like  so  soon  after — "  and  he  stopped. 

Katharine  looked  grave,  anl  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  not. — Yet  he  always  loved 
to  see  me  happy,  and  he  liked  you  so  much !  Mr. 
Lynedon,  I  will  try  to  sing,  if  it  will  give  you 
any  pleasure.  May  I  not,  mamma?" 

But  Lady  Ogilvie  had  gone  comfortably  to 
sleep  in  the  inner  drawing-room. 

Katharine  sang ;  it  was  wonderful  how  much 
she  had  improved  in.  that  one  little  week.  Paul 
listened,  praised,  and  made  her  try  over  all  his 
favorites  which  Eleanor  had  sung  to  him.  Kath- 


arine saw  his  earnest,  almost  abstracted  look 
she  knew  not  that  he  was  touched  less  by  th« 
present,  than  by  recollections  of  a  happy  past, 
and  vague  plans  for  a  future.     That  future  was 
now  all  centered  in  Eleanor  Ogilvie. 

Under  the  influence  of  these  thoughts  and  pro- 
jects Paul  felt  happy.  He  took  leave  of  the 
family — of  Katharine  especially,  with  a  cheerful, 
tender  light  in  his  eyes — those  beautiful  soft  gray 
eyes,  which  at  times  were  more  eloquent  than 
even  his  tongue. 

"  I  am  going  a  short  journey,  but  I  shall  not 
be  away  long.  A  fortnight,  at  furthest,  will  see 
me  again  at  Summer  wood." 

"  We  shall  be  happy  to  see  you,  Mr.  Lynedon," 
said  Sir  Robert,  cordially;  "you  see  we  make 
you  quite  one  of  the  family." 

"It  is  my  greatest  happiness,"  answered  Paul, 
with  a  delighted  look,  and  a  tone  of  deeper  earn- 
estness than  Katharine  had  ever  heard  him  use. 
It  made  her  little  heart  flutter  wildly.  Quicker 
still  it  throbbed,  when  Lynedon  entreated  Sir 
Robert  not  to  stir  from  the  fireside. — "Your 
good-by  and  your  good-speed  shall  be  the  last, 
dear  Katharine,  if  you  will  come  with  me  to  the 
door." 

She  did  so,  trembling  all  over.  When  they 
stood  together  in  the  hall,  he  took  both  her  hands 
in  his,  and  held  them  there  for  a*ong  time,  look- 
ing down  tenderly  upon  her  agitated  face. 

"  You  will  think  of  me  when  I  am  away  ? — 
you  will  be  glad  to  see  me  when  I  come  again  ?" 
he  whispered,  in  those  low,  winning  tones,  which 
men  like  him  thoughtlessly  pour  into  a  young 
girl's  ear. 

"  Yes,"  was  all  she  could  answer ;  but  he  saw 
that  her  slight  frnme  quivered  like  a  reed,  and 
that  the  large,  limpid  eyes  which  she  raised  to 
his,  for  one  instant  only,  were  swimming  in  tears. 
As  he  gazed,  a  thrill  of  pleased  vanity,  not  un- 
mingled  with  a  deeper,  tenderer  feeling,  came 
over  Paul  Lynedon.  With  a  sudden  impulse,  he 
stooped  down  and  kissed  the  tearful  eyes — the 
trembling  lips,  which  had  silently  betrayed  so 
much. 

"  God  bless  you,  Katharine — dearest  Kath- 
arine !"  were  his  last  words.  Their  echoes  rang 
through  her  life  for  years. 

Lynedon,  as  he  rode  home,  felt  rather  annoyed 
that  he  had  committed  himself  in  this  way.  But 
he  could  not  help  it,  she  looked  so  pretty.  And 
then,  she  was  a  mere  child  after  all,  and  would 
be  his  little  cousin  soon,  he  hoped.  With  this 
thought,  he  dismissed  the  subject,  and  the 
image  of  Katharine  glided  into  that  of  Eleanor 
Oglivie. 

But  she — the  young  creature  whom  he  left 
behind — stood  there,  absorbed  in  a  trance  of 
delirious  rapture.  She  saw  nothing — felt  noth- 
ing— but  the  vanished  face,  and  the  touch  that 
lingered  on  her  lips  and  eyelids.  It  seemed  as 
if  with  that  kiss  a  new  soul — his  soul — had 
passed  into  her  own,  giving  it  a  second  life.  She 
awoke,  as  if  in  another  world,  feeling  her  whole 
being  changed  and  sublimated.  With  her,  every 
thing  in  existence  now  tended  toward  one 
thought,  one  desire,  one  passionate  and  yet  sol- 
emn prayer — that  she  might  one  day  be  worthy 
to  lay  down  her  life,  her  love,  her  very  soul,  at 
the  feet  of  Paul  Lynedon. 


THE  OGILVIES. 


CHAPTER  XL 


Not  wholly  in  the  busy  world,  nor  quite 
Beyond  it,  blooms  the  garden  that  I  love. 
News  from  the  humming  city  comes  to  it, 
In  sound  of  funeral  or  marriage-bells, 
And,  sitting  muffled  in  dark  leaves,  you  hear 
The  windy  clanging  of  the  minster  clock. 

TENNYSON. 

THERE  is,  in  one  of  the  counties  between 
Devon  and  Northumberland,  a  certain  cathedral 
city,  the  name  of  which  I  do  not  intend  to  reveal. 
It  is,  or  was,  until  very  lately,  one  of  the  few 
remaining  strongholds  of  high  Churchism  and 
Conservatism,  political  and  moral.  In  olden 
days  it  almost  sacrificed  its  existence  as  a  city 
for  the  cause  of  King  Charles  the  Martyr,  and 
ever  since  has  kept  true  to  its  principles,  or  at 
least  to  that  modification  of  them  which  the 
exigencies  of  modern  times  required.  And  the 
"  loyal  and  ancient"  town — which  dignifies  itself 
by  the  name  of  city,  though  a  twenty  minutes' 
walk  would  bring  you  from  one  extremity  to  the 
other — is  fully  alive  to  the  consciousness  of  its 
own  deservings.  It  is  a  very  colony  of  Levites ; 
who,  devoted  to  the  temple-service,  shut  out 
from  their  precincts  any  unholy  thing.  But  this 
unnoliness  is  an  epithet  of  their  own  affixing, 
not  Heaven's.  It  means  not  merely  what  is  ir- 
religious, but  what  is  ungenteel,  unaristocratic, 
unconservative. 

Yet  there  is  much  that  is  good  about  the  place 
and  its  inhabitants.  The  latter  may  well  be 
proud  of  their  ancient  and  beautiful  city — beauti- 
ful, not  so  much  in  itself  as  for  its  situation.  It 
lies  in  the  midst  of  a  fertile  and  gracefully  undu- 
lated region,  and  consists  of  a  cluster  of  artistical, 
irregular,  and  deliciously  old-fashioned  streets,  of 
which  the  cathedral  is  the  nucleus ;  rising  aloft 
with  its  three  airy  spires,  so  light,  so  delicately 
traced,  that  they  have  been  christened  the  Ladies 
of  the  Vale ;  you  may  see  them  for  miles  and 
miles,  looking  almost  like  a  fairy  building  against 
the  sky.  The  city  has  an  air  of  repose,  an  old- 
world  look,  which  becomes  it  well.  No  railway 
has  yet  disturbed  the  sacred  peace  of  its  an- 
tiquity, and  here  and  there  you  may  see  grass 
growing  in  its  quiet  streets,  over  which  you 
would  no  more  think  of  thundering  in  a  modern 
equipage,  than  of  driving  a  coach-and-four  across 
the  graves  of  your  ancestors. 

The  whole  atmosphere  of  the  place  is  that  of 
sleepiness  and  antique  propriety.  The  people 
do  every  thing,  as  Boniface  says,  "soberly." 
They  have  grave  dinner-parties  once  or  twice  in 
the  year ;  a  public  ball,  as  solemn  as  a  funeral  ; 
a  concert  now  and  then,  very  select  and  proper; 
and  so  it  is  that  society  moves  on  in  a  circle  of 
polite  regularities.  The  resident  bishop  is  the 
sun  of  the  system,  around  which  deans,  sub-deans, 
choral  vicars,  and  clerical  functionaries  of  all 
sorts  revolve  in  successive  orbits  with  their 
separate  satellites.  But  one  character  and  tone 
of  feeling  pervade  every  body.  It  is  a  city  of 

serene  old  age,  nobody  seems  young  at  L , 

not  even  the  little  singing-boys. 

But  the  sanctum  sanctorum,  the  penetralia  of 
the  city,  is  a  small  region  surrounding  the  cathe- 
dral, and  entitled  the  Close.  Here  abide  relics 
of  ancient  sanctity,  w'iows  of  departed  deans, 
maiden  descendants  of  officials  who  probably 
chanted  anthems  on  the  accession  of  George  III., 
or  the  downfall  of  the  last  Pretender.  Here,  too, 


is  the  residence  of  many  cathedral  functionaries, 
who  pass  their  lives  within  the  precincts  of  the 
sanctuary.  These  dwellings  have  imbibed  the 
clerical  and  dignified  solemnity  due  to  their 
neighborhood.  It  seems  always  Sunday  in  the 
Close,  and  the  child  who  ventured  to  bowl  a  hoop 
along  its  still  pavement,  or  play  at  marbles  on 
its  door-steps,  would  be  more  daring  than  ever 
was  infant  within  the  verge  of  the  city  of  L— — — . 

In  this  spot  was  the  residence  of  Mrs.  Breyn- 
ton.  But  it  looked  down  upon  its  neighbors'  in 
the  Close  with  sublime  dignity,  inasmuch  as  it 
was  a  detached  mansion,  inclosed  by  high  walls, 
gardens,  and  massive  gates.  It  had  once  been 
the  bishop's  palace,  and  was  a  beautiful  relic  of 
the  stately  magnificence  of  old.  Large  and  lofty 
rooms,  oak-paneled,  and  supported  by  pillars, 
noble  staircases,  recesses,  where  proscribed 
traitors  might  have  hid ;  gloomy  bed-chambers 
with  spectral  furniture,  meet  for  the  visitation  of 
legions  of  ghosts ;  dark  passages,  where  you 
might  shiver  at  the  echo  of  your  own  footsteps 
— such  was  the  internal  appearance  of  the 
house.  Every  thing  was  solemn,  still — age- 
stricken. 

But  without,  one  seemed  to  pass  at  once  from 
the  frigidity  of  age  to  the  light  gladness  and 
freshness  of  youth.  A  lovely  garden,  redolent 
of  sweet  odors, ,  alive  with  birds,  studded  with 
velvety  grass-plots  of  the  brightest  green,  inter- 
wound  by  shady  alleys,  with  here  and  there  trees 
which  hid  their  aged  boughs  in  a  mantle  of  leave* 
and  flowers,  so  that  one  never  thought  how  they 
and  the  gray  pile  they  neighbored  had  come  into 
existence  together.  It  was  like  the  contrast 
between  a  human  mind  which  the  world  teaches 
and  builds  on  its  own  fading  model,  and  the  soul 
of  God's  making  and  nourishing,  which  lives  in 
His  sunshine  and  His  dews,  fresh  and  pure, 
grows  never  old,  and  bears  flowers  to  the  last. 

There,  in  that  still  garden,  you  might  sit  for 
hours,  and  hear  no  world-sounds  to  break  its 
quiet,  except  the  chimes  of  the  cathedral-clock, 
drowsily  ringing  out  the  hours.  Now  and  then, 
at  service-time,  there  would  come  a  faint  mur- 
mur of  chanting,  uniting  the  visible  form  of  holy 
service  with  Nature's  eternal  words  and  prayers, 
and  so  blending  the  spiritual  and  the  tangible, 
the  symbol  and  the  expression,  in  a  pleasant 
harmony.  Dear,  beautiful  garden 'I  No  dream 
of  fiction,  but  a  little  Eden  of  memory — let  us 
rest  awhile  in  thy  lovely  shades,  before  we  peo- 
ple them  with  the  denizens  of  this  our  self-created 
world.  Oh !  pleasant  garden !  let  us  go  back 
in  spirit  to  the  past,  and  lie  down  on  the  green, 
sloping  bank,  under  the  magnificent  old  tree 
with  its  cloud  of  white  blossoms — no  poet-sung 
hawthorn,  though,  bnt  only  a  double-cherry — 
let  us  stroll  along  the  terrace-walk,  and  lean 
against  the  thick,  low  wall,  looking  down  upon 
what  was  once  the  cathedral-moat,  but  is  now  a 
sloping  dell,  all  trailed  over  with  blackberries — 
iet  us  watch  the  sun-lit  spires  of  the  old  cathe- 
dral, in  a  quiet  dreaminess  that  almost  shuts  out 
thought — let  us  rest  under  the  shadow  of  this 
dream — its  pictures  made  life-like  to  us  by  the 
accompaniment  of  solemn  music,  such  as  this:—* 

O  earth  so  full  of  dreary  noises ; 
O  men  with  wailing  in  your  voices ; 
O  delved  gold — the  waller's  heap: 
O  strife — O  tears  that  o'er  it  fall, 
God  makes  a  silence  through  you  all ! 
And  giveth  his  beloved  sleep. 


THE  OGILVIES. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Of  what  quality  was  your  love,  then  ? 
Like  a  fair  house  built  upon  another  man's  ground,  so 
that  I  have  .ost  my  edifice  by  mistaking  the  place  where 
I  erected  it  SHAKSPEARE. 

How  511  doth  he  deserve  a  lover's  name 
Whose  pale,  weak  flame 

Can  not  retain 

His  heart,  in  spite  of  absence  or  disdain: 
But  does  at  once,  like  paper  set  on  fire, 

Burn  and  expire !  CAREW. 

IT  was  hardly  possible  to  imagine  a  greater 
eontrast  than  that  between  Mrs.  Breynton  and 
Eleanor  Ogilvie.  Not  so  much  that  of  youth 
and  age,  or  beauty  and  ugliness,  for  the  lady 
)f  the  palace  was  certainly  not  very  old,  and 
might  once  have  been  decidedly  handsome.  But 
there  was  a  line-and-plummet  regularity,  an 
angular  preciseness  in  Mrs.  Breynton's  mind 
and  person,  that  was  altogether  opposed  to 
Hogarth's  curve  "of  beauty  and  grace."  She 
was  like  a  correct  mathematical  figure,  alto- 
gether made  up  of  right  lines.  A  bishop's  niece, 
a  canon's  daughter,  and  a  dean's  widow,  she 
had  lived  all  her  life  under  the  shadow  of  the 
cathedral  walls.  It  was  her  world — she  could 
imagine  no  greater — and  in  it  she  had  passed  a 
ife  serene,  sedate,  unbroken,  save  by  two 
shocks :  the  death  of  the.  dean,  and  an  event 
still  more  terrible,  her  only  brother's  relinquish- 
ment  of  the  church  for  the  army.  The  first  she 
recovered  in  time  5  the  second  she  atoned  for  by 
bringing  up  that  favorite  brother's  orphan  son, 
to  restore  the  credit  of  the  family,  through  the 
induction  of  surplice  and  band. 

The  elder  lady  and  her  companion  sat  together 
in  the  breakfast-room.  It  was  the  only  apart- 
ment in  the  house  that  was  small  enough  to  be 
comfortable,  and  this  shadow  of  domestic  cosi- 
aess  was  taken  away  by  one-half  of  it  being 
transformed  by  a  glass  partition- wall  into  a  con- 
seivatory.  But  this  conservatory  was  unlike  all 
others,  inasmuch  as  it  had  dead  brick  walls  and 
high  windows,  through  which  little  light  could 
penetrate,  so  that  it  looked  as  if  the  room  had 
been  made  into  a  vegetable  menagerie. 

Mrs.  Breynton  always  made  a  rule  of  sitting 
still  after  breakfast  for  half  an  hour,  during 
which  time  she  read  her  letters,  decided  upon 
the  day's  avocations,  and  knitted  one  square  of 
an  eternal  counterpane,  that  seemed  likely  to 
enter  on  its  duties  for  the  first  time  as  the  shroud 
of  its  centenarian  fabricator. 

"  Eleanor,  my  dear!"  said  the  measured  tones 
of  the  dean's  widow. 

Eleanor  had  entered  the  menagerie  with  the 
charitable  intention  of  opening  the  window  to 
give  air  to  its  caged  occupants. 

"  My  dear  Eleanor !"  repeated  in  a  tone  higher, 
made  her  turn  round,  and  answer  the  call.  "  I 
merely  wished  to  remind  you  that  we  never  open 
the  conservatory  window  until  Easter,  and  it  is 
now  only  the  week  before  Lent." 

Eleanor  closed  the  windows,  looking  compas- 
sionately at  the  poor  orange-trees,  which  could 
only  drink  in  air  and  light  by  rule  and  measure. 
She  came  into  the  breakfast-room,  and  sat  watch- 
ing the  sunshine  that  struggled  in,  and  rested  on 
an  old  picture — the  only  one  in  the  room — a 
portrait  of  a  rosy,  golden-haired  little  boy.  The 
original  was  the  canon  Francis  Wychnor,  whose 
monument  stood  in  the  cathedral  nave.  Could 
ie  have  ever  been  a  child  9 


Mrs.  Breynton  knitted  another  row  in  silence, 
and  then  observed — 

"  Eleanor,  my  reference  to  this  season  of  Lent, 
has  made  me  remember  how  near  it  is  to  the 
Ember  weeks.  I  wonder  I  did  not  hear  from 
Philip  to-day." 

Sudden  blushes  rarely  came  to  Eleanor'* 
clear,  pale  cheek ;  her  feelings  were  too  calm. 
But  now  she  felt  glad  that  she  sat  in  the  shade, 
for  Mrs.  Breynton's  thoughts  had  taken  the 
same  direction  as  her  own. 

"  Perhaps  he  will  write  to-morrow,"  was  the 
very  ordinary  reply  that  she  found  herself  able 
to  make. 

"  I  hope  so ;  but  he  has  rarely  suffered  Tues- 
day morning  to  pass  by;  and  it  would  have  been 
pleasant  to  me  to  know  that  he  is  quite  prepared 
for  taking  orders." 

"  This  year — so  soon !" 

"  Certainly,  my  dear.  He  was  three-and- 
twenty  last  month — just  in  time.  I  have  already 
spoken  to  the  bishop  about  the  curacy  of  Wear- 
mouth  ;  and  old  Mr.  Vernon,  the  rector  of  that 
place,  is  not  likely,  in  course  of  nature,  to  live 
more  than  two  or  three  years.  I  consider  that 
there  are  few  young  men  with  better  prospects 
than  my  nephew ;  and  I  think  I  may  flatter  my- 
self on  having  been,  to  a  certain  degree,  instru- 
mental in  his  well-being." 

"  Indeed,  he  owes  you  much !  But  I  am  sure, 
from  what  I  know  of  Mr.  Wychnor,  that  your 
kindness  will  be  requited  with  interest." 

A  pleased,  though  very  frigid  smile  bent  the 
thin  lips  of  the  dean's  widow.  "I  am  quite 
satisfied  that  Philip  will  do  credit  to  his  family. 
I  have  no  fault  to  find  with  him,  except,  perhaps, 
that  he  is  not  regular  enough  in  his  studies, 
and  has  a  fancy  for  always  carrying  with  him. 
a  volume  or  two  of  idle  poetry — not  quite  the 
thing  for  a  young  clergyman  to  read.  But  he 
will  get  over  that ;  and  if  he  conducts  himself 
well  in  his  curacy,  and  marries  to  please  me,  as 
I  have  little  doubt  he  will"  (here  Mrs.  Breynton 
glanced  approvingly  at  Eleanor's  gracefully- 
drooped  head),  "why  then  Philip  will  have  no 
cause  to  regret  that  he  is  my  nephew.  But  it 
is  already  ten  o'clock,  and  I  have  to  speak  to 
the  gardener  about  transplanting  some  gera- 
niums. Eleanor,  will  you  be  kind  enough  to 
ring  for  Davis  ?" 

Long  after  the  old  lady  had  attired  herself, 
and  been  seen  slowly  traversing  the  garden- 
walks,  Eleanor  sat  musing  on  her  latter  words, 
"  If  Philip  marries  to  please  me."  It  was  al- 
most the  first  time  she  had  ever  heard  the  word 
marriage  on  Mrs.  Breynton's  lips.  The  palace 
had  always  seemed  a  quiet,  innocent  paradise, 
wherein  there  was  no  mention  of  the  one  feeling 
which  in  society  is  often  diluted  into  a  meaning- 
less and  contemptible  jest,  or  made  the  cause  oi 
all  strife,  evil,  and  sorrow.  Eleanor  and  Philip, 
shut  up  together,  like  two  young  birds,  in  this 
peaceful  Eden,  had  glided  into  love  without  any 
one's  taking  apparent  notice  of  the  fact,  and 
almost  without  knowing  it  themselves.  The 
flower  had  sprung  up  in  their  hearts,  and  grown 
leaf  by  leaf,  bud  by  bud,  neither  could  tell  how. 
No  doubts  and  jealousies  from  the  world  outside 
had  ever  come  between  them.  Their  perfect 
love  was  perfect  trust — the  deep  faith  between 
two  beings  who  feel  that  they  are  formed  for 
one  another,  and  are  united  to  their  heart's  core. 


THE  OG1LVIES. 


33 


They  never  talked  about  their.love — Philip  made 
no  declarations — Eleanor  asked  no  vows — and 
vnen  they  parted,  for  the  short  visit  at  Summer- 
wood,  there  was  no  formal  farewell,  only  as  they 
stood  at  the  hall-door,  Philip  pressed  her  hand 
closer  to  his  arm,  and  said — 

"  Take  care  of  yourself,  Eleanor — my  Elea- 
nor!— remember  you  are  dearest  to  me  of  all 
the  world." 

Eleanor  believed  it,  and  felt  from  that  moment 
that  she  was  betrothed  to  him  in  heart  and  soul. 
She  rested  in  the  knowledge  .full  of  trust  in  him, 
in  his  true,  earnest,  noble  nature.  Satisfied 
with  this,  she  had  not  thought  much  of  the  fu- 
ture, until  Mrs.  Breynton's  words  awakened  a 
restlessness,  and  an  anxious  looking  forward. 
Eleanor  knew  Philip's  heart  better  than  any  one, 
and  foreboded  that  all  these  projects  for  his  fu- 
ture advantage  were  little  likely  to  be  seconded 
by  him.  She  sat  pondering  for  nearly  an  hour, 
when  she  was  summoned  into  the  drawing-room 
by  the  arrival  of  a  visitor. 

It  was  the  last  person  in  the  world  whom  she 
expected. 

"Mr.  Lynedon;  this  is,  indeed,  a  surprise;" 
cried  Eleanor. 

There  was  a  slight  confusion  in  his  manner 
which  was  very  soon  reflected  in  hers,  for  just 
at  that  moment  Mrs.  Breynton  entered.  The 
extreme  frigidity  of  her  reception  was  enough  to 
produce  an  uncomfortable  feeling  in  any  maiden 
of  nineteen,  who  had  to  introduce  a  strange 
gentleman — arrived,  apparently,  without  any 
object  but  that  of  seeing  her. 

"  Mrs.  Breynton,  this  is  Mr.  Lynedon,  a  friend 
of  my  uncle  Ogilvie's,  who  was  staying  at  Sum- 
merwood.  1  believe  I  spoke  of  him." 

I  have  not  the  slightest  recollection  of  the 
feet,  my  dear ;  but  any  friend  of  yours,  or  of  Sir 
RDbsrt  Ogilvie's  is  welcome  to  my  house.  Pray 

be  seated,  Mr. .  Excuse  me,  Eleanor,  but 

I  did  not  catch  the  gentleman's  name." 

"  Lynedon,"  answered  Paul,  somewhat  dis- 
concerted by  the  cold,  penetrating  gaze  of  Mrs. 
Breynton.  However,  he  made  an  effort  and  re- 
covered his  self-command.  "  I  bear  credentials 
from  Summerwood,  which  I  hope  will  atone  for 
this  intrusion,  a  few  books,  which  Miss  Ogilvie 
was  sending  to  her  cousin.  Happening  to  pur- 
pose a  journey  which  would  lead  me  through 
your  city,  1  volunteered  to  deliver  them.  Per- 
haps this  was  hardly  disinterested,  as  I  was  glad 
of  an  excuse  to  stay  and  see  your  beautiful  ca- 
thedral." 

Mrs.  Breynton  began  to  thaw.  To  praise 
"our  cathedral,"  and  manifest  interest  therein, 
was  a  certain  road  to  her  favor.  From  the  few 
words  she  answered,  Paul  Lynedon  was  sharp- 
sighted  enough  to  discover  this,  and  he  followed 
up  his  game  with  great  patience  and  ingenuity. 
While  Eleanor  examined  the  books  he  had 
brought,  he  talked  the  dean's  lady  into  the  best 
of  humors.  She  took  him  to  the  window  which 
looked  on  the  cathedral-yard,  explained  its  archi- 
tecture from  top  to  bottom,  and  finally,  delighted 
with  the  interest  that  he  evinced,  and  his  evident 
skill  in  antiquarian  lore — Paul  was  the  cleverest 
of  tacticians  in  displaying  every  whit  of  his 
knowledge — she  invited  her  unexpected  guest  to 
stay  to  luncheon. 

"Then,  Eleanor,  my  dear,  we  can  afterward 
show  the  cathedral  to  Mr.  Lynedon,  since  he 


seems  to  admire  it  so  much.  I  mention  this, 
Mr.  Lynedon,  because,  under  my  escort,  you 
will  be  able  to  see  the  Ladye  Chapel,  the  vaults, 
anc.  other  interesting  parts,  where  visitors  are 
not  admitted  in  general ;  but  I,  as  connected 
with  the  cathedral — " 

"Of  course, .my  dear  madam;  how  fortunate 
that  I  have  the  pleasure  of  an  introduction  from 
one  so  important  as  yourself,"  said  Paul  Lyne- 
don, trying  not  to  smile  at  the  clerical  pride  of 
this  relative  of  so  many  departed  dignitaries. 
His  tendency  for  delicately  polite  satire  became 
almost  irrepressible,  until,  in  the  midst  "of  his 
pretended  deference,  he  caught  Eleanor's  pure, 
soft  eyes  fixed  on  him.  The  reproach  she  was 
hardly  conscious  of  giving,  he  felt,  and  stopped 
immediately. 

Excited  by  her  presence,  Paul's  longing  to 
unfold  his  love,  and  receive  his  requital,  grew 
stronger  than  ever.  He  tried  every  expedient 
that  courtesy  could  either  sanction  or  conceal, 
in  order  to  get  the  old  lady  out  of  the  room. 
But  Mrs.  Breynton  had  been  brought  up  in  the 
old-world  school  of  proprieties,  and  had  no  idea 
of  leaving  a  young  lady  and  gentleman  alone 
together  for  five  minutes,  unless  they  were 
plighted  lovers.  So  during  two  interminable 
hours,  Paul  had  not  an  opportunity  of  ex(jhang- 
ing  one  word  with  Eleanor,  except  on  the  most 
trivial  subjects,  and  even  then  Mrs.  Breynton's 
quick,  black  eyes  followed  him  with  a  hawk-like 
pertinacity,  that  was  any  thing  but  pleasant. 

Paul  grew  quite  nervous.  "  It  will  come  to  a 
letter  after  all,  and  I  hate  the  idea  of  a  proposal 
in  ink.  Confound  that  stupid  old  woman!" 
thought  Lynedon,  while  the  impetuosity  of  his 
character  foamed  and  boiled  under  the  check  ho 
was  forced  to  put  upon  it. 

At  last  Mrs.  Breynton  proposed  to  visit  the 
cathedral. 

"Pray  do  not  let  me  encroach  upon  you  too 
much,"  said  Paul;  "the  verger  will  show  me, 
or  if  Miss  Ogilvie  would  favor  me  so  far." 

His  eyes  turned  toward  Eleanor;  so  did  Mrs. 
Breynton's ;  but  there  was  not  the  shadow  of  a 
love-plot  suggested  in  that  calm,  mild  face. 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Lynedon,  I  should  be  very  glad 
to  act  as  your  guide,  only  Mrs.  Breynton  knows 
so  much  more  than  I  do  about  these  curious  old 
monuments.  However,  we  will  both  go  with 
you." 

"  Certainly  Eleanor,''  acquiesced  Mrs.  Breyn- 
ton, with  an  air  of  complete  re-assurance ;  while 
Paul  forced  his  hand  so  precipitately  into  his 
glove  that  he  tore  it  right  in  two.  But,  as  if  the 
favoring  stars  looked  with  pity  on  the  vexed 
lover,  it  so  chanced  that  the  bishop's  lady  drove 
up  to  the  gates  just  as  the  three  were  setting 
out.  Mrs.  Breynton  was  forced  to  return,  and 
Paul  at  last  found  himself  alone  with  Eleanor. 

"  Who  ever  wooed 
As  in  his  boyish  hope  he  would  have  done  V' 

asks  the  poet;  and  poets  are,  in  nine  cases  out 
of  ten,  the  only  truth-speakers.  Paul  Lynedon 
suddenly  discovered  that  he  had  not  a  word  to 
say.  Eleanor — quiet,  composed,  unconscious 
Eleanor,  had  all  the  talk  to  herself  She  exerted 
her  memory  to  the  utmost  in  order  to  explain 
every  thing.  Paul  listened  assentingly — walked 
beside  her  —  looked  where  she  directed  —  but 
whether  she  were  showing  him  Newgate  oj 


34 


THE  OGILVIES. 


Westminster  Abbey,  it  would  have  been  quite 
impossible  lor  him  to  tell.  When  they  came 
out,  a  sudden  fear  urged  him  to  make  the  most 
of  the  time. 

"  Do  not  let  us  go  in  yet.  I  should  like  to  see 
the  view  from  the  terrace  you  spoke  of,"  he  said, 
hurriedly. 

They  walked  to  the  garden  terrace. 

"I  really  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  being 
Katharine's  messenger  —  it  was  so  kind  and 
thoughtful  of  her  to  make  me  this  present,  and 
to  choose  such  nice  books,  too,"  observed  Elea- 
nor. 

Paul  felt  that  he  must  "  do  or  die."  He  stood 
still  in  his  walk,  took  her  hand  and  said,  in  a  deep, 
low  whisper — 

"Miss  Ogilvie,  you  are  mistaken,  Katharine 
never  sent  those  books,  it  was  but  my  excuse 
for  seeing  you.  I  can  not  live  any  longer  with- 
out saying,  '  Eleanor,  I  love  you !'  Why  do  you 
start — why  do  you  turn  away?  Eleanor,  you 
must  hear  me — you  must  answer  me." 

She  could  not — indeed,  he  hardly  allowed  her 
time — but  went  on  rapidly — 

"  You  were  so  kind,  so  gentle,  when  we  were 
at  Summerwood — I  thought  you  might  love  me, 
or  would  let  me  teach  you  to  do  so  in  time. 
Eleaaor,  is  it  so?  tell  me — or  have  I  deceived 
myself?" 

Eleanor's  reply  was  the  one  terrible  word — 

"Yes!" 

Paul  Lynedon  did  not  answer.  He  leaned 
against  the  wall  and  covered  his  face.  Eleanor, 
startled,  pained,  almost  terrified,  was  also  silent. 
They  stood  thus  for  some  minutes.  At  last 
Eleanor  said — 

You  must  not  think  bitterly  of  me.   I  did  re- 
you  very  much  as  a  friend,  but  I  had  no 
lea  of  this.     Mr.  Lynedon,  you  do  not  think  I 
deceived  you?" 

"  No,  ncH— it  was  my  own  madness,"  muttered 
Paul;  "the  fool  I  was!  to  think  I  had  read  a 
woman's"  heart.  Well!  it  will  be  a  lesson  to 
me.  Miss  Ogilvie,  I  trust  you  will  pardon  me," 
he  said,  in  a  tone  that  savored  more  of  wounded 
pride  than  of  heart-broken  love. 

"And  you  will  forgive  me  for  thus  making 
you  unhappy.  Indeed,  I  would  fain  have  been 
saved  this  trial,  for  I  respect  you  very  much," 
answered  that  soft  voice  which  took  its  modula- 
tions from  Eleanor's  own  tender  heart.  It  touched 
Paul's,  even  amidst  the  throng  of  angry  and  bit- 
ter feelings  that  were  rising  there. 

"For  God's  sake,  Miss  Ogilvie,  tell  me  why 
you  reject  me!  Is  it  simply  because  I  have 
been  so  hasty,  that  I  have  not  given  you  time  to 
love  me,  or  because  you  love  another?" 

A  deep  crimson  rose  to  Eleanor's  very 
brow.  Paul  saw  the  blush ;  his  pride  took  arms 
against  his  lingering  love,  and  drove  it  from  the 
field. 

"  You  need  not  speak — I  am  answered ;  Miss 
Ogilvie,  let  me  hope  that  you  will  forget  this 
unfortunate  betrayal  of  feelings  you  do  not  re- 
turn ;  and  accept  my  best  wishes  for  your  happi- 
ness. Look !  I  see  your  friend  at  the  window ; 
shall  we  retrace  our  steps  ? — I  wish  to  heaven  it 
could  be  done  in  more  ways  than  one,"  added  the 
rejected  Jover  in  a  bitter  aside,  which  Eleanor's 
agitation  prevented  her  from  hearing.  If  she 


had,  it  might  have  saved  her  gentle  heart  from 
many  a  painful  thrill  of  womanly  pity,  and  shown 
her  how  rootless,  and  how  easily  extinguished  is 
the  love  which  springs  up  suddenly  in  the  breast 
of  a  proud  and  impetuous  man,  and  with  tha 
thwarting  of  its  own  selfish  impulse  as  quickly 
dies  away.  No  man  who  loves  worthily,  how- 
ever  hopelessly,  will  mingle  bitterness  and  anger 
with  his  sorrow,  or  say  to  the  sunbeams  under 
whose  brightness  he  had  walked  for  a  time,  "  [ 
would  ye  had  never  shone  !" 

Eleanor  and  Lynedon  re-entered  the  house  in 
silence.  Mrs.  Breynton  looked  at  them  with  a 
politely-qualified  curiosity;  but  the  answer  to 
her  penetrating  inquiry  appeared  sufficiently 
satisfactory,  for  she  took  no  notice  of  the  dis- 
covery. And  the  reverend  and  reverenced  sha- 
dow of  the  bishopess  was  still  upon  the  good 
lady,  who  felt  herself  bound  to  reflect  on  all 
around  the  high  dignity  and  honor  of  this  rare 
visit,  shutting  out  every  minor  consideration. 

"I  shall  be  always  happy  to  see  you,  Mr, 
Lynedon,"  she  said,  replying  to  her  guest's 
hurried  adieus ;  and,  with  a  stately  politeness, 
"I  regret  that  my  nephew  is  not  here,  but  we 
expect  him  shortly." 

Paul  glanced  at  Eleanor.  In  the  drooped  head 
— in  the  bright  rosy  dye  which  suffused  the  very 
throat — he  read  the  secret  of  his  rejection.  He 
turned  hastily  away,  and  his  hurried  strides  re- 
sounded heavily  down  the  pavement  of  the  close. 
There  was  a  little  child  playing  in  his  path — he 
drove  the  frightened  boy  aside  with  a  fiery 
glance,  and  a  command  that  sounded  almost  like 
an  execration.  Spirit  of  true  and  pure  Love — 
even  though  sorrow- vailed  —  couldst  thou  have 
been  in  his  soul  and  suffered  this  ? 

"  Well !  he  is  the  strangest  young  man  I  ever 
knew,  is  Mr.  Paul  Lynedon,"  was  Mrs.  Breyn- 
ton's  comment  as  she  watched  him  from  th« 
window  of  the  palace;  "really,  Eleanor — " 

But  Eleanor  had  left  the  room  to  relieve  her 
troubled  heart  with  a  gush  of  pent-up  tears.  This 
sudden  knowledge  of  another's  love  had  un vailed 
to  her  more  completely  the  depths  of  her  own, 
and  shown  her  how  her  whole  soul  was  bound 
up  in  Philip  Wychnor.  And  no  matter  in  how 
happy  and  hopeful  a  light  this  consciousness  may 
come,  there  is  always  something  solemn,  almost 
fearful  to  a  woman,  who  thus  stands,  as  it  were, 
on  the  brink  of  a  life-destiny ;  feeling  that  in  the 
future  nothing  can  be  perfectly  sure  or  clear  but 
the  faithful  love  in  her  own  heart.  Yet  that  love 
is  her  fairest  omen  —  her  safest  anchor — her 
chiefest  strength,  except  in  Heaven ! 

And  while  Eleanor  lingered  alone,  in  thought- 
ful musings  that  were  almost  prayers,  and  Paul 
Lynedon  dashed  on  his  way  in  angry  sorrow, 
determined  to  travel  abroad,  and  so  crush  out 
of  his  heart  every  memory  of  his  slighted  love, 
Mrs.  Breynton  —  good,  easy  soul  —  sat  dozing 
over  her  netting,  and  thinking  how  very  con- 
descending was  the  new  bishop's  lady,  when 
the  first  invitation  to  dinner  would  arrive,  and 
whether  she  should  wear  the  black  velvet  or  the 
Irish  poplin. 

Oh !  youth,  with  thy  fiery  heart — which,  after 
all,  is  nearest  to  Heaven  in  the  nobleness  that 
thrills  through  its  wildest  beatings — canst  thou 
ever  freeze  into  such  a  dead,  dull  calm  as  this  ? 


THE  OGILVIES. 


35 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


I  ask  no  vengeance  from  the  powers  above ; 
All  I  implore  is,  never  more  to  love : — 
Let  me  this  fondness  from  my  bosom  tear, 
Let  me  forgettthat  e'er  I  thought  her  fair. 

LYTTLETON. 

Passions  are  likened  best  to  floods  and  streames, 
The  shallow  murmur,  but  the  deepe  are  dumb; 

So,  when  affections  yield  discourse,  it  seems 
The  bottom  is  but  shallow  whence  they  come. 

RALEIGH. 

LYNEDON  strode  through  the  quiet  grass- 
grown  streets  of  L ,  his  feet  winged  by  the 

impetuous  anger  of  a  thwarted  will.  Despite 
the  impulse  of  this  sudden  passion,  it  had  cost 
him  considerable  effort,  before  the  gay  and 
courted  man  of  the  world  could  resolve  to  give 
up  his  liberty,  and  immolate  himself  on  the 
matrimonial  shrine  for  any  woman  soever.  And 
now  the  heroic  resolution  was  wholly  needless — 
the  momentous  sacrifice  was  rejected  as  an  un- 
valued offering.  The  first  proposal  of  marriage 
with  which  Paul  Lynedon  had  ever  honored  the 
sex,  had  been  refused.  And  by  whom?  By  a 
simple  country  girl,  who  had,  he  now  thought, 
neither  beauty,  nor  fascinations  of  manner,  nor 
•— -fortune. 

He  remembered  that  last  circumstance  now, 
though,  to  do  Paul  justice,  he  had  not  considered 
it  before — for  he  was  not  a  mercenary  man. 
Even  while  it  stung  his  pride,  it  brought  a  faint 
consolation  to  his  sense  of  worldly  wisdom.  It 
had  certainly  saved  him  from  perpetrating  a 
most  improvident  marriage.  He  "  laid  the  flat- 
tering unction  to  his  soul,"  but  it  proved  only  a 
temporary  balsam;  the  sting  still  remained — 
wounded  pride — selfish,  angry  sorrow,  like  that 
of  a  ahild  over  a  lost  toy — and  perhaps  a  deeper, 
purer  feeling,  that  regretted  the  vanished  spell 
of  that  gentle  woman's  nature,  under  which 
every  better  impulse  of  his  own  had  been  re- 
awakened. That  which  he  had  felt  was  not  the 
real  love,  the  one  sole  love  of  life ;  but  no  man 
could  have  entered  even  within  the  shadow  of 
Eleanor  Ogilvie's  influence,  without  some  true, 
deep  chords  being  sounded  in  his  heart:  and 
from  their  silence  came  the  pain,  the  only  sin- 
cere and  virtuous  pain  which  Paul  Lynedon 
experienced.  To  lull  it,  he  walked  fcr  miles 
across  the  country,  striving  by  physical  exercise 
to  deaden  the  excitement  of  his  mind. 

It  was  a  lovely  region  through  which  he  pass- 
ed— all  woodland  or  pasture-grounds — but  the 
young  man  saw  nothing.  Nature,  pure,  unal- 
loyed nature,  was  rarely  his  delight :  his  percep- 
tions, though  refined,  were  not  simple  enough  to 
relish  such  pleasures.  Now  he  only  felt  that 
the  roads  were  insufferably  muddy,  and  the  fields 
hatefully  quiet.  He  did  not  marvel  at  the  taste 
of  a  woman  brought  up  in  such  scenes  ;  he  only 
cursed  his  own  folly  for  ever  having  seen  any 
charm  in  rural  innocence.  He  would  eschew 
such  sentimentality  in  future ;  he  would  go  back 
to  the  gay,  care-drowning  world — plunge  in 
London  life — or,  what  seemed  far  better,  travel 
abroad  once  more. 

Under  this  impulse  he  sprang  on  a  coach  that 
was  then  passing,  caring  little  whither  it  bore 
him,  so'  that  it  was  far  away  from  L . 

Lynedon  intrenched  himself  in  proud  reserve 
beside  the  coachman,  and  scarcely  answered 
even  in  monosyllables,  when  this  individual — a 


character  in  his  way — civilly  pointed  out  many 
a  lovely  pastoral  view,  among  which,  from 
every  point,  the  "Ladies  of  the  Vale"  could  be 
seen  airily  towering  into  the  clear  sky;  an<2 
with  melancholy  emphasis,  did  the  foreboding 
hero  of  the  whip  point  out  the  line  where  the 
threatened  railway  was  to  traverse  this  beautiful 
champaign,  and  bring  at  last  the  evil  spirit  of 
reform  and  progress  into  the  time-honored  sanc- 
tity of  the  cathedral  town.  But  Lynedon  hated 
the  very  name  of  the  place.  All  he  noticed  in 
his  neighbor's  conversation  was  the  atrocious 
S — shire  accent,  and  he  came  to  the  conclu 
sion  that  the  English  peasantry  were  the  rud- 
est in  the  world. 

At  last  Paul's  mind  began  to  settle  into  a  few 
straightforward  resolves  with  regard  to  his  fu- 
ture proceedings.  The  coach  was  bearing  him 
toward  London — but  could  he  go  there,  within 
reach  of  the  sneers  of  the  already  suspecting 
Mrs.  Lancaster  ?  No ;  he  would  pretend  ur^ 
gent  affairs,  and  rush  abroad ;  and  to  do  this,  he, 
must  first  go  home. 

Home  !  It  was  a  rare  word  in  Paul  Lynedon's 
vocabulary  ;  very  few  of  his  friends  knew  of  it? 
existence  at  all,  and  he  never  sought  to  enlight 
en  their  ignorance ;  for,  in  fact,  he  was  consider- 
ably ashamed  of  the  circumstance. 

The  penultimate  descendant  of  the  time-hon- 
ored Lynedon  race  had  sought  to  redeem  his. 
fortunes  by  trade.  Paul's  father  had  been  a  cot- 
ton-manufacturer. The  moderate  fortune  which 
now  enabled  the  son  to  take  his  stand  in  that 
sphere  to  which  his  birth  entitled  him,  had  sprung 
from  the  red  brick  mill,  with  its  black  windows, 
its  ever-dinning  wheels.  The  grim  phantom 
had  been  the  horror  of  Paul  Lynedon's  youth — 
it  haunted  him  even  yet.  Perhaps,  had  his  bet- 
ter self  gained  free  play,  he  would  not  have  so 
wholly  sought  to  stifle  the  memory  of  the  place 
wrhere,  years  before,  the  aristocratic  father, 
equally  proud,  but  yet  noble  in  his  pride,  had 
put  his  hand  to  the  plough,  and  never  once  look- 
ed back  until  he  had  replaced  ancestral  wealth 
by  the  wealth  of  industry.  Paul's  conscience, 
and  his  appreciative  reverence  for  virtue,  ac- 
knowledged all  this,  but  he  had  not  strength  of 
mind  to  brave  the  world,  and  say  so. 

Therefore,  while  he  would  not  part  with  the 
simple  dwelling  where  his  gray-haired  father 
and  his  young  mother  had  both  died,  and  where 
his  sister  and  himself  had  spent  their  orphaned 
childhood — still  Lynedon  rarely  alluded  to  his 
"  home,"  and  scarcely  ever  visited  it.  The  dis- 
tant sound  of  the  horrible  cotton-mill,  now  long 
since  passed  into  other  hands,  almost  drove  him 
wild  still.  No  head  with  brains  could  endure 
the  din.  On  his  rare  visits  he  usually  made  a 
circumbendibus  of  half  a  mile  to  avoid  it-  He 
did  so  now,  notwithstanding  the  weariness 
caused  by  his  long  night  journey.  At  last,  in 
the  sunshine  of  early  morning,  he  stood  by  his 
own  door. 

It  had  been  a  straight-staring,  plain-fronted 
house,  of  the  eternal  red  brick  peculiar  to  the 
manufacturing  districts.  But  the  builder's  want 
of  taste  was  concealed  by  tho  late  owner's  pos- 
session of  that  graceful  quality.  Over  the  star- 
ing front  were  trained  ivy,  clematis,  and  vine, 
converting  it  into  a  very  bower  of  greenery. 
And  amidst  the  formal  garden  had  been  plant- 
ed quick-growing  lime  trees,  that  now  formed 


36 


THE  OGILV1ES. 


"pleached  alleys,"  wherein  even  poets  or  lov- 
ers—the true  honey-bees  of  all  life's  pleasure- 
flowers— might  delight  to  walk. 

As  Paul  Lynedon  passed  hastily  through  them, 
he  thought  for  a  moment  how,  when  the  trees 
were  growing,  he  and  his  little  sister  had  used 
to  play  at  hide-and-seek  among  them.  He  wish- 
ed that  the  bright,  curly-tressed  nead  had  been 
peeping  out  now  from  the  branches,  and  smiling 
a  quiet,  womanly,  sisterly  welcome  from  the  now 
barred  and  lonely  door-way.  The  first  time  for 
many  months  he  remembered  a  little  green 
mound  beside  the  stately  burying-place  of  the 
Lynedons — far  away.  Paul  sighed,  and  thought 
that  he  might  have  been  a  better  and  a  hap- 
pier man  if  poor  little  Alice  had  lived  to  be  a 
woman 

He  roused  his  old  housekeeper;  but  when 
she  came,  at  the  first  look  of  her  sour,  grum- 
bling face,  he  dismissed  her  speedily.  In  the 
long-deserted  house  was  neither  chamber  nor 
bed  prepared;  so  he  stretched  himself  on  a 
sofa,  and  tried  to  forget  past,  present,  and  future 
in  a  most  welcome  slumber. 

This  deep  sleep  lasted  for  several  hours,  and 
he  woke  with  the  afternoon  sun  staring  right 
into  his  face,  together  with  a  couple  of  human 
optics,  belonging  to  a  young  man  who  sat  near 
him  and  maintained  an  equally  pertinacious 
gaze.  This  individual  held,  likewise,  his  evi- 
dently medical  fingers  on  Lynedon's  wrist,  while 
from  the  other  hand  dangled  the  orthodox 
M.D.'s  watch.  It  fell  to  the  ground,  when 
Paul  started  up  with  an  energy  very  unlike  a 
patient's. 

"  My  good  fellow — my  dear  Lynedon — well, 
I  thought  there  would  be  nothing  much  the 
matter  with  you." 

"  Who  imagined  there  was?" 
"  Why,  that  good  old  soul  below,  who  said 
you  slept  so  heavily  at  first,  and  then  began  to 
talk  so  wildly,  she  was  sure  you  were  mad,  or 
had  taken  poison,  and  so  fetched  me." 

"Pshaw! — well,  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you, 
doctor,"  said  Paul,  rousing  himself,  and  trying 
to  shake  off  the  rush  of  painful  and  mortifyin] 
thoughts  that  came  with  his  waking.  He  coul 
not  do  this  altogether ;  and  it  was  with  con- 
siderable effort  that  he  forced  his  features  into  a 
polite  smile  while  he  listened  to  the  talk  of  his 
old  college  chum,  who,  on  giving  up  the  sermon- 
book  for  the  spatula,  had  been  considerably 
indebted  to  Lynedon's  kindness  for  a  start  in 
life. 

"  I  am  sure  I  hope  you  are  coming  to  settle 
among  us,  or  at  least  to  stay  a  long  time,"  said 
Dr.  Saville. 

Paul's  face  darkened  "No;  I  shall  be  off 
in  a  day  or  two  for  the  Continent.  I  don't  care 
when  I  come  back.  I  hate  England." 

"  Really — how  very  odd — what  can  be  the 
reason?"  was  the  simple  remark  of  the  most 
common-place  of  country  doctors. 

"  Never  mind,  my  good  fellow,"  said  Paul, 
rather  sharply.  "  Don^;  talk  about  myself,  I  am 
sick  of  the  subject ;  speak  about  any  other  mat- 
ters— your  own  for  instance ;  doubtless  far  more 
interesting  to  both  parties." 

"  Thank  you,  Lynedon,  you  are  very  kind  ;" 
and  the  chattering,  weak-minded,  but  good-na- 
tured medico  held  forth  for  a  long  time  on  the 
inane  topics  current  in  the  neighborhood.  At 


last  he  crept  on  to  his  own  peculiar  affairs  ;  and, 
as  the  twilight  darkened,  gathered  courage  to 
convey  to  his  old  friend  and  patron  the  important 
nformation  that  he  was  about  to  marry. 

"If  you  do,  you  are  a  confounded  fool,"  cried 
Lynedon,  with  an  energy  that  made  the  little 
dector  tremble  on  his  chair.  "I  beg  your  par- 
don, Saville,"  he  added,  trying  to  laugh  off  the 
matter,  "you  don't  know  what  women  are — but 
old  friend  Mars  did  though,  remember. 

'  Varium  et  mutabile  semper 
Foemina.' 

The  old  fellow  was  not  far  wrong,  eh  !  They  are 
all  alike." 

"  Except  my  Lizzie  !  oh,  no  !  I'm  quite  sure 
of  Lizzie ;"  and  the  good  simple  soul  began  to 
dilate  contentedly  on  a  future  rendered  certain 
by  its  humble  hopes  and  limited  desires.  Paul 
was  touched;  it  formed  such  a  contrast  to  his 
selfish  sorrow  and  mortified  pride.  He  listened 
with  a  feeling  almost  like  envy  to  the  bride- 
groom-expectant's account  of  his  already  fur- 
nished house,  his  neat  garden — Lizzie  liked 
flowers — his  little  gig,  wherein  he  could  go  his 
rounds  and  drive  Lizzie  to  see  her  mother  on  a 
Sunday.  In  the  midst  of  this  quiet,  monotonous 
stream  of  talk  the  worthy  doctor  was  startled 
by  Paul's  suddenly  springing  up  with  the  cry — 

"Upon  my  soul,  Charles  Saville,  you  are  a 
happy  man,  and  I  am  a  most  miserable  one  ! 
I  wish  to  Heaven  that  I  were  dead  !" 

Lovers,  and  especially  rejected  lovers,  are 
generally  slow  to  communicate  to  any  male 
friend  the  story  of  their  sufferings.  They 
will  do  so  sometimes,  nay,  often,  to  a  friend  of 
the  opposite  sex.  A  woman  makes  the  best 
confidante  after  all ;  and  perhaps,  in  such  cases, 
womanly  sympathy  is  the  surest  cure  for  a 
heart-wound.  It  is  hard  to  account  for  the  im- 
pulse that  made  Lynedon  betray  his  feelings  to 
his  old  friend,  except  from  the  fact,  that  the 
sympathy  of  the  worthy,  simple-minded  doctor 
was  most  like  that  of  a  woman.  Perhaps,  too, 
the  contrast  in  their  prospects  invited  sympa- 
thy, and  Lynedon,  having  been  the  doctor's 
patron,  was  disposed  to  like  him,  and  to  be 
more  than  usually  communicative.  But  how- 
ever it  chanced,  most  certainly  Doctor  Saville 
contrived  to  glean  a  great  deal  of  information ; 
and  by  putting  together  names,  incidents,  and 
exclamations,  to  form  a  tolerable  guess  at  a 
great  deal  more.  In  fact,  if  he  did  not  arrive 
at  the  whole  truth,  he  came  very  near  it,  and 
his  prolific  imagination  easily  supplied  the  rest. 
But  he  took  care,  by  a  respectful  reserve,  to 
avoid  startling  the  sensitiveness  of  his  patron ; 
and  the  promise  of  secrecy,  with  which  he  bade 
Lynedon  adieu,  he  long  and  faithfully  kept — ex- 
cept with  regard  to  his  "Lizzie." 

Paul,  left  to  himself,  saw  night  close  upon 
him  in  the  lonely  house.  He  felt  more  and 
more  its  desolation  and  his  own.  It  was  not  so 
much  the  lost  love,  as  the  need  of  loving,  which 
came  upon  him  with  such  intense  pain.  He 
thought  of  the  poor  village  doctor,  contempti- 
ble in  mind  as  in  person,  who  yet  could  look 
forward  to  a  bright  hearth,  made  happy  by  a 
mother's  blessing  and  a  wife's  clinging  arms. 
While  he,  the  admired  of  many  a  circle — accus- 
tomed to  the  honeyed  flatteries  of  many  a  fair 
lip,  which  he  knew  to  be  false  as  his  own — he, 
Paul  Lynedon,  stood  alone,  with  not  a  single 


THE  OGILVIES. 


37 


creature  in  the  whole  wide  world  to  love  him 
truly. 

"Not  one — not  one!"  As  he  despondently 
repeated  the  words,  Paul  Lynedon's  eye  fell 
upon  a  slip  of  paper  which  he  had  carelessly 
tossed  out  of  his  pocket-book.  It  was  merely  a 
few  verses — copied  by  his  request — written  out 
in  a  girlish  hand,  evidently  strained  into  the  most 
anxious  neatness.  It  bore  the  date  "Summer- 
wood,"  and  the  signature  "  Katharine  Ogilvie." 

As  Paul  unfolded  tba  paper,  his  face  bright- 
ened »-yi  *5ft.n*d  mto  tenderness.  There  came 
^Otbre  mm  a  vision  of  the  dark  eyes  lifted,  for 
one  moment  only,  in  sorrowing,  yearning  love — 
the  fair  lips  which  had  trembled  beneath  his  own. 

"Dear  little  girl — sweet  little  Katharine! — 
I  think  she  does  care  for  me — God  bless  her  !" 
He  felt  almost  inclined  to  kiss  the  paper^  but 
stopped;  reflecting  with  a  half-smile  that  she 
was  such  a  child !  But  even  a  child's  love  was 
precious  to  him  then. 

"  I  should  almost  like  to  see  her  again  before 
I  leave  England,"  thought  Paul.  "But  no— it 
would  not  do !  What  excuse  could  I  make  for 
my  sudden  flight?  However,  I  will  write." 

He  did  write,  as  the  impulse  of  the  moment 
dictated.  He  spoke  of  his  departure  from  En- 
gland as  of  a  painful  necessity,  of  her  remem- 
brance as  the  dearest  consolation  of  his  exile, 
and  of  meeting  her  on  his  return  as  a  cherished 
hope.  It  was  a  letter  which  spoke  as  his  idle 
words  had  before  done — every  thing  except  the 
positive  declaration  of  love.  Its  deep  tender- 
ness— its  half  ambiguous  expressions — its  brok- 
en and  altered  sentences — were  such  as  to  thrill 
with  happiness  any  young,  impassioned  heart, 
that  would  fain  make  its  desire  its  trust,  and 
cling  with  wild  intensity  to  every  imagined 
token  of  love,  which  is,  alas !  but  the  reflection 
cast  by  its  own.  Poor  Katharine !  These  out- 
pourings of  a  momentary  feeling,  forgotten  by 
the  writer  ere  they  met  the  reader's  eye,  what 
would  they  be  to  her  ? 

Paul  Lynedon  knew  not — thought  not — per- 
chance, cared  not !  A  few  weeks  after,  and  he 
was  mingling  in  the  gayest  salons  of  Paris ;  the 
pleasure  and  pain  of  the  last  three  months  hav- 
ing alike  passed  from  his  memory,  as  though 
they  had  never  been. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

I  have  a  more  than  friend 

Across  the  mountains  dim ; 
No  other  voice  to  me  is  sweet 

Unless  it  nameth  him ! 
We  broke  no  ring  of  gold 

A  pledge  of  faith  to  be, 
But  1  wear  his  last  look  in  my  soul 

Which  said,  "I  love  but  thee !" 

I  was  betrothed  that  day : 

T  wore  a  troth-kiss  on  my  lips  I  would  not  give  away. 
E.  B.  BROWNING. 

THERE  is  hardly  a  man  in  the  world  who 
does  not  feel  his  pulse  beat  quicker,  when,  even 
after  a  short  absence,  he  finds  himself  nearing 
home.  A  common-place  this— often  said,  often 
written — but  there  are  common-places,  deli- 
cious, ever-fresh  truths,  which  seem  the  daisies 
on  the  world's  highway ;  it  is  hard  not  to  stop 
and  gather  them  sometimes.  So,  beginning  with 
this  trite  saying,  we  may  go  on  to  remark  that 


Philip  Wychnor's  heait  experienced  a  slight  ad 
ditional  thrill,  when,  riding  through  the  grass- 

growrf  streets  of  L ,  he  saw  the  evening  sun 

emblazoning  the  palace-windows,  and  felt  that 
he  was  really  "coming  home."  It  was  a  dearer 
home  to  him  than  to  most ;  for  it  was  his  heart's 
home,  too. 

It  is  a  rule  with  novelists — and  a  sterling  one, 
too,  in  general — that  you  should  never  unvail 
your  characters  by  elaborate  descriptions  of 
mind  and  person,  but  suffer  them  to  develop 
themselves  in  the  progress  of  the  story,  shining 
down  upon  them  until  they  unfold  beneath  the 
sun-burst  of  your  artistic  skill,  instead  of  pull- 
ing them  open,  leaf  by  leaf,  with  your  fingers, 
and  thus  presenting  to  the  reader  your  well-dis- 
sected bouquet  of  human-heart  flowers.  But, 
in  the  present  case,  we  will  waive  the  aforesa'-d 
excellent  rule,  for  no  reader  could  ever  find  out 
the  inner  character  of  Philip  Wychnor  from  its 
outward  manifestations  in  the  routine  of  daily 
life.  Not  that  he  was  deficient  in  many  exterior 
qualities  to  win  regard :  most  people  liked  him 
— or,  at  least,  that  half  of  his  character  which 
was  most  apparent — and  said,  as  Hugh  Ogilvie 
once  did,  that  he  was  "a  good  fellow  enough." 
There  was  but  one  in  the  world  who  thoroughly 
understood  him,  who  had  looked  into  the  pure 
depths  of  his  noble  soul.  What  need  is  there 
to  say  who  was  that  one — precious,  loving,  and 
beloved — on  whom  this  glorious  soul  rested, 
and  from  whom  it  drew  comfort,  freshness,  and 
peace  ? 

Philip  Wychnor  would  never  have  made  a 
hero,  either  in  body  or  mind — at  least,  not  one 
of  your  grand  world-heroes,  who  will  overthrow 
an  army,  or  perform  some  act  of  self-devotion 
with  which  the  heart  of  history  throbs  for  a 
century  after.  But  there  is  many  a  lauded  mar- 
tyr whose  funeral  pile  is  only  a  huge  altar  to 
self-glory,  which  the  man's  own  dying  hands 
have  reared :  the  true  heroes  are  those  whose 
names  the  world  never  hears,  and  never  will 
hear — the  blessed  household  martyrs,  who  offer 
unto  God  the  sacrifice,  not  of  death's  one  pang, 
but  of  life's  long,  patient  endurance ;  the  holy 
ones  who,  through 

"Love's  divine  self-abnegation," 

attain  the  white  robes  and  the  ever-blooming 
palms  of  those  who  "  have  passed  through  much 
tribulation." 

Our  Philip  might  have  been  one  of  these. 

But,  wearying  of  our  "was-nots"  and  "might- 
have-beens,"  we  may  ask,  dear  reader,  what  he 
was.  A  poet  ?  No ;  he  had  scarcely  ever 
strung  together  six  consecutive  rhymes.  But 
his  whole  life  was  a  poem — so  pure,  so  rich  in 
all  those  dear  charities  and  holy  influences 
which  create  the  poetry  of  this  world.  God 
makes  some  of  his  truest  poets  outwardly 
dumb,  but  their  singing  is  like  the  music  of  the 
stars ;  the  angels  hear  it  up  in  heaven ;  and  no- 
ble spirits,  looking  thither  from  earth,  can  tell 
how  glorious  such  unheard  melody  must  be. 
Was  he  handsome  ?  It  might  be,  for  genius 
rarely  exists  without  casting  over  the  outward 
frame  a  certain  spiritual  loveliness;  and  often- 
times soul  and  body  grow  linked  together  in  an 
exquisite  perfection,  so  that  neither  materialist 
nor  spiritualist  would  think  of  dissevering  the 
one  from  the  other.  But  the  beauty  of  I7hili# 


38 


THE  OGILVIES. 


W/chnors  face  was  too  refined — almost  too 
feminine— to  attract  general  notice.  Features 
regularly  chiseled  and  delicately  small,  shadow- 
ed by  hair  of  a  pale,  clear  brown,  in  which 
somewhat  rare  tint  no  one  could  detect  either 
the  admired  gold  or  the  widely-condemned  red 
— a  stature  very  reed-like,  both  as  to  height  and 
slenderness — and  that  personal  sign  which  in  a 
man  so  often  accompanies  exquisite  refinement 
of  mind,  a  beautiful  hand — comprise  the  exter- 
nal semblance  of  him  whom  we  have  hitherto 
seen  only  through  the  reflection  of  Eleanor 
Ogilvie's  love. 

Let  him  now  stand  alone  in  his  real  likeness, 
ungilded  by  even  this  love-sunshine ;  a  son  of 
Adam,  not  perfect,  but  still  nearer — ay,  ten 
thousand  times  nearer  to  that  grand  image  of 
true  manhood  than  the  many  poor  clay  deities, 
the  work  of  the  tailor  and  the  fencing-master, 
that  draw  silly  maidens'  eyes  in  drawing-room 
or  street.  Stand  forth,  Philip  Wychnor !  raise 
thy  face,  sublime  in  its  gentleness — with  the 
pure  lips,  through  which  the  foul  impieties  of 
boasting  youth  never  yet  passed — with  the  eyes 
that  have  scorned  not  at  times  to  let  their  lashes 
droop  over  a  tear  of  sympathy  or  sorrow.  Lift 
up  thy  hand,  which  never  used  its  strength 
against  a  fellow-creature,  and  was  not  the  less 
heroic  for  that.  Stand  forth,  noble  yet  meek- 
hearted  Philip  Wychnor,  and  show  the  world 
the  likeness  of  a  man  ! 

He  passed  the  iron  gateway,  sprang  up  the 
palace-steps  with  a  speed  worthy  of  an  agile 
youth,  and — a  lover;  in  a  minute  the  pleasant, 
fire-lit  room  where  Mrs.  Breynton  and  Eleanor 
held  their  after-dinner  chat,  was  brightened  by 
a  presence  welcome  to  both — now  doubly  so  to 
one !  A  good  and  kind,  if  not  an  affectionate 
aunt,  was  Mrs.  Breynton,  and  perhaps  now  as 
much  warmth  as  her  nature  boasted  was  ex- 
pressed in  the  solemn  salutation  which  Philip's 
forehead  received.  And  then  came  the  dear, 
close,  lingering  hand-pressure  of  meeting  and 
welcome — so  silent,  yet  so  full  of  all  faithful 
assurance,  between  two,  who  to  their  inmost 
hearts  know,  love,  and  trust  one  another. 

After  even  a  few  months  of  separation,  it  al- 
ways takes  a  space  of  desultory  talk,  before  the 
dearest  friends  settle  down  into  the  quiet  satis- 
faction of  meeting,  and  so  the  conversation 
around  that  dear  fireside  at  the  palace  was 
rather  restless  and  wandering,  both  as  to  the 
topics  discussed,  and  the  way  in  which  they 
were  sustained.  Philip  found  himself  listening, 
or  at  least  hearing  with  his  outward  ears,  the 
full,  true,  and  particular  account  of  the  new 
bishop's  first  sermon,  and  his  lady's  first  call  at 
the  palace.  It  showed  either  surprising  forge  t- 
fulness,  or  true  womanly  tact  in  Mrs.  Breynton, 
that  in  her  lengthened  recital  of  that  day's 
events  she  made  no  allusion  to  Mr.  Paul  Lyne- 
don. 

"  By-the-by,  my  dear  Philip,  as  you  did  not 
write,  I  did  not  expect  you  home  quite  so  soon." 

"1  myself  hardly  expected  such  a  pleasure 
until  yesterday,  when  I  found  I  could  leave. 
And  you  know,  aunt  Breynton,  that  I  never  lose 
any  time  in  coming  to  see  you,"  answered  the 
young  man,  affectionately. 

A  nleased,  though  rather  a  sedate  smile, 
marked  the  acknowledgments  of  aunt  Breyn- 
ton :  and  ilien  her  mind  turned  suddenly  to  the 


1  melancholy  fact,  that  no  household  preparation 
was  made  for  the  visitor. 

"  This,  you  see,  my  dear  nephew,  is  the  result 
of  not  doing  things  regularly.  Had  you  written 
the  day  before,  we  should  have  had  your  room 
ready ;  but  now  I  will  not  answer  for  your  hav- 
ing to  sleep  without  curtains.  And  I  dare  say 
you  have  not  dined,  and  the  cook  is  gone  to  bed, 
most  likely." 

Philip  protested  against  the  accusation  of 
hunger,  though  he  was  quite  unable  to  recol- 
lect whether  he  had  dined  or  not.  Thereupon, 
he  was  obliged  to  listen  to  a  few  arguments 
upon  the  necessity  of  taking  care  of  his  health 
and  the  evil  of  long  fasting,  and  at  last  Mrs. 
Breynton's  domestic  anxiety  could  no  longer 
restrain  itself,  and  she  rose  to  quit  the  room ; 
only,  as  she  passed  the  door,  she  unfortunately 
spied  on  a  chair  the  hat  and  gloves  which  her 
nephew  had  thrown  down  on  his  entry.  She 
could  not  resist  the  opportunity. 
"Philip!" 

Philip  started  from  an  earnest  gaze  at  the 
clear,  drooping  profile  which  was  reflected 
against  the  fire-light,  and  opened  the  door  for 
the  old  lady.  The  act  of  politeness  disarmed 
her ;  she  was  ever  a  devotee  to  the  grave  court- 
esies of  old,  and  the  long  lecture  resolved  itself 
into— 

"Thank   you,   Philip.      Now  oblige  me  by 
ringing  for  the  footman  to  take  away  these. 
She  pointed  to  the  offending  intruders  on  the 
neatness  of  her  drawing-room,  and  sailed  majes- 
tically away,  the  very  genius  of  tidiness. 

Dear  Eleanor  and  Philip ! — young,  simple- 
hearted  lovers  ! — such  as  the  wide  world's  heart 
i  has  ever  yearned  over  in  song  or  story — ay,  and 
I  ever  will — how  did  they  look  at,  how  speak  to 
'  each  other  ?  They  did  neither ;  they  stood  by 
i  the  fire — for  she  had  risen  too— stood  quite  si- 
1  lent,  until  Philip  took  first  one  hand,  then  both, 
I  in  his. 

"Eleanor,  are  you  glad  to  see  me?" 
"  Glad,  Philip  !"  was  the  low  reply — only  an 
echo,  after  all ;  but  the  clear,  pure  eyes  were 
raised  to  his  with  a  fullness  of  love  that  gave 
!  all  the  answer  his  own  sought.     He  lifted  the 
dear  soft  hands — he  drew  them,  not  unwilling 
to  be  thus  guided,  around  his  neck,  and  folded 
to  his  bosom  his  betrothed.     It  was  the  silent 
marriage-vow  between  two  hearts,  each  of  which 
felt  for  the  first  time  the  other's  pure  beatings ; 
j  a  vow  not  less  sacred  than  the  after  one,  with 
joined  hands  before  the  altar;  a  solemn  troth- 
plight,  which,  once  given  and  received  in  sin- 
j  cerity  and  true  love,  no  earthly  power  ought 
ever  to  disannul. 

And  surely  the  angels,  who  sang  the  mar- 

I  riage-hymn  of  the   first   lovers  in   Eden,   cast 

down  upon  these  their  holy  eyes — ay,  and  felt 

that  holiness  unstained  by  the  look.     For  can 

there  be  in  this  world  aught  more  sacred  than 

two  beings  who  stand  together,  man  and  woman, 

i  heart-betrothed,  ready  to  go  forth  hand  in  hand, 

'  in  glad  yet  solemn  union,  on  the  same  journey, 

I  toward  the  one  eternal  home  ? 

0  God.  look  down  upon  them !     O  God  bless 

them  and  fill  them  with  love,  first  toward  thee, 

and   then   toward   one   another !     Make    them 

strong  to  bear  gladly  and  nobly  the  dear  burden 

i  which  all  must  take  who,  in  loving,  receive  unto 

i  themselves  another  soul,  with  its  errors  and  its 


THE  OGILVIES. 


weaknesses.  And  so,  witla  a  like  prayer,  should 
be  sanctified  all  earthly  betrothals,  even  as  this 
of  Philip  and  Eleanor. 

When  Mrs.  Breynton  returned,  she  found  the 
hat  and  gloves  lying  precisely  where  she  had 
left  them;  through  the  half-opened  inner-door, 
she  caught  a  glimpse  of  Eleanor's  black  dress 
gliding  up  the  stair-case,  while  Philip  stood 
with  his  face  to  the  fire,  trying  with  all  his 
might  to  commit  the  enormity  of  whistling  in  a 
drawing-room.  How  all  these  conflicting  ele- 
ments were  finally  reconciled  is  not  on  record ; 
but  the  fact  is  certain  that,  in  honor,  probably, 
of  her  nephew's  return,  the  good  old  lady  sat 
up  talking  with  him  until  past  eleven  o'clock, 
and,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  quite  forgot  to 
call  the  servants  to  family  prayers.  Moreover, 
as  she  passed  Eleanor's  room,  she  entered, 
kissed  her  on  both  cheeks,  and  went  away  with- 
out a  word,  save  a  fervent  "  God  bless  you !" 
Perhaps  the  one  heartfelt  blessing  rose  nearer 
to  heaven  than  the  leaden- winged,  formal  prayers 
would  ever  have  climbed. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Has  it  never  occurred  to  us  when  surrounded  by  sor- 
rows, that  they  may  be  sent  to  us  only  for  our  instruc- 
tion, as  we  darken  the  eyes  of  birds  when  we  wish  to 
teach  them  to  sing  7  JEAN  PAUL. 

Ah!  fleeter  far  than  fleetest  storm  or  steed, 

Or  the  death  they  bear, 
The  heart  which  tender  thought  clothes  like  a  dove, 

With  the  wings  of  care. 
In  the  batile,  in  the  darkness,  in  the  need, 

Shall  mine  cling  to  thee, 
Nor  claim  one  smile  for  all  the  comfort,  love, 

It  may  bring  to  thee. 

SHELLEY. 

"  AND  now,  my  dear  children,  let  us  talk  of 
your  prospects  in  the  world,"  said  Mrs.  Breyn- 
ton, gravely,  when,  after  a  long  day,  happy,  in- 
deed, bit  somewhat  restlessly  spent  by  all  three, 
they  sa;  once  more  in  the  pleasant  fire-light,  as 
they  had  done  the  evening  before.  The  only 
difference  was  that  now  Philip  ventured  to  sit  on 
the  same  side  of  the  fire  as  Eleanor ;  and  in  the 
shadowy  flicker  of  the  blaze,  it  would  have  been 
impossible  to  tell  precisely  what  had  become  of 
her  hand.  Still,  the  right,  true,  and  worthy 
owner  of  that  little  hand  probably  knew,  and  no 
one  else  had  any  business  to  inquire. 

Mrs.  Breynton  found  it  necessary  to  repeat 
her  observation,  slightly  varied,  "I  wish,  my 
dear  nephew,  and  niece  that  will  be,  to  talk 
seriously  about  your  plans  for  the  future.  When 
do  you  propose  to  marry  ?  and  what  do  you  pro- 
pose to  marry  upon?" 

These  point-blank  questions  rather  startled 
Philip  and  his  affianced.  Few  lovers,  especially 
young  lovers,  amidst  the  first  burst  of  deep  hap- 
piness, stay  to  think  at  all  of  those  common-place 
things,  house-furnishing,  house-keeping,  yearly 
income,  and  such  like.  A  little,  Eleanor  had 
mused ;  perhaps  more  than  most  young  girls,  on 
the  time  when  the  enthusiastic  devotion  of  the 
lover,  merged  in  the  still  affection  of  the  hus- 
band, it  would  be  her  part  less  to  be  ministered 
unto  than  to  minister,  surrounding  him  with  all 
comfort  and  love  in  the  dear,  quiet,  blessed 
home — their  home.  But  Philip,  the  dreamer, 
Siill  unacquainted  with  the  rea-'ities  of  life,  had 


never  thought  of  thesfc  things  at  all.  They 
came  upon  him  almost  bewilderingly,  and  all 
the  answer  he  could  make  to  his  aunt's  ques- 
tion was  the  very  unsatisfactory  one — 

"I  really  do  not  know!" 

Mrs.  Breynton  looked  from  the  one  to  the 
other  in  dignified  reproof.  "This,  I  must  say, 
is  the  evil  of  young  people's  arranging  their 
matrimonial  affairs  for  themselves.  Nobody 
ever  did  so  in  my  day.  Your  excellent  uncle, 
the  dean,  furnished  his  house  down  to  the  very 
stair-carpets,  before  he  even  asked  me  to  marry 
him.  And  you,  Philip,  I  dare  say,  have  not 
even  thought  in  what  county  of  England  you 
intend  to  settle  ?" 

Philip  acknowledged  he  had  not.  Oh,  blessed 
Present,  that  with  its  golden  light  can  so  dim 
and  dazzle  the  eyes  as  to  make  them  scarcely 
desire  to  look  further,  even  into  a  happy  future. 

Mrs.  Breynton  tried  to  lecture  gravely  upon 
improvident  and  hasty  marriages ;  it  was  her 
way ;  and  yet  she  had  lain  awake  since  seven 
o'clock  that  morning,  calculating  how  much  in- 
come the  curacy  of  Wearmouth  would  bring  in 
yearly,  and  what  it  would  take  to  furnish  that 
pretty  cottage  next  to  the  rectory ;  nay,  she  had 
even  settled  the  color  of  the  drawing-room  cur- 
tains, and  was  only  doubtful  whether  the  carpet 
should  be  Axminster  or  Brussels.  But  she  loved 
so  to  dictate  and  reprove,  and  then  sweep  grace- 
fully round,  laden  with  advice  and  assistance. 

Thus,  after  a  due  delay,  she  unfolded  all  her 
kindly  purposes ;  dilating  with  an  earnestness 
and  clerical  appreciation  worthy  of  the  dean's 
lady,  on  the  promised  curacy,  the  living  in  pro- 
spectu,  with  its  great  advantages,  viz.,  the  easy 
duty — large  Easter  offerings — plenty  of  glebe- 
land,  and  a  nobleman's  seat  close  by,  whose 
owner  was  devoted  to  the  Church,  and  always 
gave  practical  marks  of  his  respect  by  dinners 
and  game. 

"I  think,  Philip,"  continued  she,  "that  noth- 
ing could  be  more  fortunate.  I  have  the  bishop's 
word  for  your  having  the  curacy  immediately  on 
your  taking  orders ;  and  though  I  mean  no  dis- 
respect to  good  Mr.  Vernon — if  he  should  die  in 
a  year  or  two,  as  in  course  of  nature  he  must — 
you  will  meanwhile  have  an  opportunity  of 
showing  his  grace  what  an  agreeable  neighbor 
he  might  secure  by  presenting  you  with  the 
living." 

Had  the  worthy  dame  been  able  to  read  her 
nephew's  face,  as  well  as  those  gentle  eyes 
which  were  now  lifted  to  it  with  anxious  ten- 
derness, she  would  have  seen  in  the  grave,  almost 
sad  expression  which  came  over  it,  how  little 
the  young,  earnest  nature  sympathized  with  the 
worldly-minded  one.  Philip's  honest  foot  would 
never  have  entered  the  tainted  Paradise  she 
drew.  Respect  restrained  his  tongue — as  it  had 
done  many  a  time  before ;  but  Eleanor  read  in 
his  silence  what  his  thoughts  were.  Honor  be 
to  the  unselfish  and  truly  womanly  impulse 
which  prompted  her  to  press  fondly  and  encour- 
agingly the  hand  wherein  her  own  lay,  as  if  to 
say,  "  Stand  fast,  my  beloved ;  do  that  which  is 
right;  I  keep  with  thee  through  all."  It  was 
the  first  taking  upon  herself  of  tJbat  blessed  bur- 
den of  love,  which  through  life's  journey  they 
were  to  bear  for  one  another.  Philip  leaned  in 
spirit  upon  the  helpmate  God  had  given  him. 
He  grew  strong,  and  was  comforted. 


THE  OGILVIES. 


"Dear  aunt,"  he  said,  gently,  "you  are  very 
good  tn  think  of  all  these  things,  but  I  feel  by 
no  means  sure  that  I  shall  ever  be  a  clergy- 
man." 

"  Not  be  a  Clergyman !  not  take  orders !  when 
you  have  all  your  life  been  studying  for  the 
Church !"  cried  Mrs.  Breynton,  lifting  up  her 
eyes,  with  the  most  intense  astonishment. — 
'Philip  Wychnor !  what  can  you  mean?" 

"I  mean,"  said  Philip,  slowly  and  firmly, 
though  in  a  tone  low  and  humble  as  a  child's, 
"  that  for  the  last  year  I  have  thought  much 
and  deeply  of  the  life  apparently  before  me.  I 
have  seen  how  the  sanctity  of  the  Church  is  pro- 
faned by  those  servants  who,  at  its  very  threshold, 
take  either  an  utterly  false  vow,  or  one  half- 
understood  and  wholly  disregarded.  I  dare  not 
lay  upon  my  soul  this  sin." 

Mrs.  Breynton' s  temperament  was  too  frigid 
to  be  often  disturbed  by  violent  passion  ;  but  it 
was  easy  to  see,  from  the  restless  movements  of 
her  fingers,  and  the  sudden  twitching  about  her 
thin,  compressed  lips,  how  keenly  she  was  agi- 
tated by  her  nephew's  words. 

"  Then,  sir,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "you  are 
about  to  inform  me  that  you  have  followed  the 
example  of  other  wild,  misguided  young  men, 
and  dissented  from  the  Establishment ;  in  short, 
that  you  no  longer  believe  in  our  Holy  Church." 

"  I  do  believe  in  it,"  cried  Philip,  earnestly. 
"  I  believe  it  to  be  the  purest  on  earth ;  but  no 
human  form  of  worship  can  be  all  pure.  I  have 
never  quitted,  and  never  shall  quit,  the  Church 
in  which  I  was  born,  but  I  will  not  bind  myself 
to  believe  and  to  follow  blindly  all  her  dogmas ; 
and  I  dare  not,  in  the  sight  of  God,  say  that  I  feel 
called  by  his  Spirit  to  be  a  minister  at  the  altar, 
when  I  do  not  sincerely  think  I  am." 

"And  may  I  ask  what  right  you  have  to 
think  any  thing  at  all  about  the  matter  ?  This 
is  merely  a  form  of  ordination,  which  men  much 
wiser,  and  more  pious  than  yourself— excuse 
me,  Philip — have  appointed;  and  which  every 
clergyman  passes  through  without  any  scruple. 
It  is  a  mere  form  of  words — meaning  only  that 
the  candidate  is  a  good  man,  and  will  not  dis- 
grace the  cloth  he  wears.  Your  uncle  explained 
it  all  to  me,  once,  Philip."  continued  Mrs. 
Breynton,  losing  the  cold  scorn  of  her  manner 
in  the  real  earnestness  of  her  feelings.  "  You 
would  not,  surely,  give  up  your  prospects  in  life 
for  such  a  trifle  as  this  ?" 

"A  trifle  !"  echoed  Philip,  sadly,  as  he  saw 
how  vain  it  would  be  to  explain  his  motives 
further,  and  felt  keenly  the  bitterness  his  deter- 
mination would  give  to  his  aunt's  mind.  She, 
fancying  that  in  his  silence  she  had  gained  an 
advantage,  pursued  it  with  all  the  skill  of  which 
she  was  capable. 

"My  dear  nephew,  do  you  know  what  you 
are  doing  ?  Have  you  forgotten  that  your  whole 
education  has  been  bent  toward  this  end  ;  that 
your  owr.  small  fortune — perhaps  a  little  more, 
to  which  I  will  not  allude — has  gone  in  college 
expenses  for  the  same  purpose ;  that  if  you  fol- 
low your  present  wild  scheme,  you  must  begin 
life  anew,  with  nothing  in  this  world  to  trust  to." 
"Except  an  honest  heart  and  a  clear  cci- 
ccience,"  said  Philip,  calmly  but  resolutely. 

How  tender  and  holy  was  the  light  in  those 
sweet  eyes  that  looked  up  in  his — how  warm 
the  pressure  of  the  other  hand— not  the  clasped 


one — which  of  its  own  accord  turned  round  his 
arm  in  fond  encouragement.  He  needed  the 
strength  thus  imparted,  for  it  was  sorely  shaken 
by  Mrs.  Breynton's  next  words — uttered  in  ° 
tone  where  anger  and  disappointment  triumphed 
over  all  acquired  composure. 

"Listen  to  me,  Philip  Wychnor.  You  are 
about  to  act  like  a  madman,  and  I  feel  it  my 
duty  to  stop  you  if  I  can.  I  do  not  ask  you  to 
remember  how  I  have  brought  you  up,  with 
this  purpose  in  view,  treating  you  less  like  my 
brother's  child  than  my  own ;  nor  do  I  speak  of 
my  disappointment — for  I  know  your  great 
tieroes,  for  conscience-sake,  think  little  of  these 
things,"  she  added,  with  a  sarcastic  meaning 
that  cut  Philip  to  the  heart.  He  sprang  up  to.- 
speak — 

"  Stay — sit  down  again.  I  am  not  accustomed 
to  any  scenes,"  said  the  old  lady,  coldly.  "I 
knew  a  young  man  once — he  was  not  unlike 
you,  Philip" — and  Mrs.  Breynton  regarded  her 
nephew  with  a  smile,  half  bitter  half  mournful — 
"  he  too,  for  a  whim — a  boyish  whim — gave  up 
the  Church,  and  his  father  turned  him  out  into 
the  wide  world — to  starve.  His  mother  broke 
her  heart ;  and  the  girl  he  was  about  to  marry 
— (still  like  you) — she  grieved  until  her  friends 
forced  her  to  wed,  another  lover ;  but  they  could 
not  keep  her  from  dying,  after  all.  Will  you 
hearken,  Philip,  now? — for  the  man  was  yeur 
father,  and  that  gentle-hearted  creature  he  left 
to  die  of  grief,  was  the  dearest  friend  I  ever  had 
— ay,  and  the  mother  of  your  Eleanor." 

Struck  with  surprise,  and  deeply  moved,  the 
two  young  lovers  impulsively  started  from  each 
other's  side — but  only  for  a  moment.  Closer 
they  drew  together  in  that  painful  time  of  agita- 
tion, unrestrained  by  outward  form ;  and  Philip 
murmured,  as  he  wound  his  arm  round  her — 

"  Mine — mine  still — for  all  the  past.  She  will 
trust  me — my  Eleanor — my  own  ?" 

Mrs.  Breynton  went  on.  "  Now,  Philip  Wych- 
nor, you  may  follow  your  father's  steps,  if  you 
like ;  but  I  solemnly  declare,  that  if  you  persist 
in  this,  and  disgrace  the  family  as  he  did,  I  will 
give  up  my  purpose  of  making  you  my  heir; 
and  that  you  may  not  bring  poverty  on  that  dear 
child,  whom  I  have  loved  all  her  life  for  her 
mother's  sake  :  with  my  consent  you  shall  never 
marry  Eleanor  Ogilvie." 

Too  angry  to  trust  herself  with  another  word, 
Mrs.  Breynton  swept  out  of  the  room. 

Philip  had  started  up  to  detain  her,  but  she 
was  gone.  He  paced  the  room  in  violent  agita- 
tion, never  looking  toward  Eleanor;  then  he 
threw  himself  beside  a  table  in  the  farthest  and 
darkest  corner,  and  laid  his  head  upon  his  folded 
arms,  as^if  quite  oblivious  even  of  her  presence. 

For  this  a  proud  woman  would  have  treated 
her  lover  with  silent  indignation;  a  selfish  one 
would  have  let  loose  her  wounded  vanity  in  a 
burst  of  reproaches;  but  Eleanor  was  neither 
one  nor  the  other.  A  single  pain  shot  through 
her  heart,  as  she  sat  alone  and  unnoticed  by  the 
fire ;  two  or  three  tears  fell,  and  then  the  true 
woman's  nature  triumphed.  She  had  not  be- 
stowed her  love  for  the  poor  requital  of  out- 
ward attentions,  such  as  wooers  pay — she  had 
not  meted  it  out,  share  for  share,  as  if  love  were 
a  thing  to  be  weighed  and  measured :  but  she 
had  given  it  freely,  knitting  her  soul 'unto  his, 
until  she  felt  and  Iived3  suffered,  and  rejoice4; 


THE  OGILVIES. 


41 


not  in  herself,  or  for  herself,  but  in  him,  and  for 
him. 

Eleanor  rose  and  glided  noiselessly  across 
the  room,  until  she  stood  beside  her  lover.  In 
his  stupor  he  hardly  felt  that  she  was  near  him. 
ft  K-  faint  beatings  were  there  in  the  young 
maiden-heart  at  the  new  and  solemn  office  that 
became  hers ;  one  passing  flush,  and  then  all 
earthly  feelings  were  stilled  by  the  mute  prayer 
Nknich  spoke  in  the  lifted  eyes.  She  stooped 
down,  laid  her  arms  round  Philip's  neck,  and 
kissed  him  on  the  forehead. 

H  )  started — he  almost  shivered  beneath  the 
touch  of  her  lips. 

"  Oh,  my  God !  how  shall  I  bear  this  ?  Don't 
speak  to  me,  Eleanor ;  don't  touch  me,  or  I 
shall  have  no  strength  at  all — go  away !" 

But  the  next  moment  the  harsh  accents  melt- 
ed into  tears — such  a  wild,  burning  flood  as 
rarely  burst  even  from  man's  pent-up  suffering. 
Eleanor,  terrified,  almost  heart-broken,  was  yet 
the  stronger  now.  A  woman  who  loves  always 
is.  She  knelt  beside  him — it  was  on  her  true 
breast  that  his  tears  fell,  and  he  did  not  turn 
away  from  that  blessed  resting-place.  How 
could  he  ?  A  child  does  not  cling  to  its  mother 
with  more  utter  helplessness  than  did  Philip  to 
his  betrothed  in  that  hour  of  suffering. 

And  she,  as  she  bent  over  him,  her  heart 
lifted  itself  up  in  silent  breathings,  that  she 
might  grow  strong  to  strengthen  him,  and  trust- 
ful to  comfort  him. 

U0h,  God!"  was  that  inward  prayer;  "if  it 
must  be,  take  all  the  sunshine  out  of  my  life  and 
give  it  to  his.  Oh!  would  that  I  could  die  for 
thee,  my  heart's  dearest — my  pride — my  hus- 
band /" 

And  as  her  soul  breathed  over  him  the  yet 
unuttered  name,  she  felt  it  as  an  omen,  that  this 
cloud  would  pass  away,  and  the  time  would 
surely  come  when  her  lips  had  a  right  to  echo 
the  heart's  voice. 

"You  see  how  weak  I  am,  Eleanor,"  at  last 
he  said,  with  a  mournful  attempt  at  a  smile; 
"  I,  who  yesterday  told  you  how  my  arm  would 
brave  the  world  for  you ;  and  now  I  cling  help- 
lessly to  yours.  But  it  must  not  be — she  was 
right — I  should  only  bring  trouble  on  you.  I 
must  stand  alone.  Eleanor,  take  your  arm  away, 
it  weighs  me  down  like  lead.  Oh!  that  we 
were  only  friends — that  yesterday  had  never 
been!" 

He  spoke  in  the  bitterness  of  his  soul,  without 
thinking  of  her.  Eleanor  cast  one  hurried,  pained 
glance  upon  his  face,  and  knew  this.  Blessings 
on  that  unselfish  nature,  which,  knowing,  at  once 
forgave ! 

"Eleanor,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  speaking 
quickly  and  abruptly,  "have  you  thought  what 
will  be  the  end  of  this?  Do  you  know  that  I 
can  not  marry  you — at  least,  not  for  many,  many 

rars ;  that  I  have  nothing  to  live  upon,  because 
was  too  proud  to  be  entirely  dependent  on  I 
aunt  Breynton,  and  I  spent,  as  she  says,  my 
little  all "  at  college,  intending  to  enter  the 
Church.  Even  after  my  mind  changed,  I  went 
dreaming  on,  never  thinking  of  the  future,  fool 
that  I  was !  And  yet  most  people  would  say  I 
am  a  greater  fool  now ;" — he  added,  with  a  bit- 
ter smile — "  ay,  and  something  of  a  villain  to 
boot.  Eleanor,  after  all,  I  think  I  will  take  the 
euracy.  I  shall  not  be  a  greater  hypocrite  than 


many  of  those  in  gown  and  band ;  and  I  shall 
keep  my  oath  to  you,  if  I  break  it  to  Heaven." 

_"  Never,"  cried  Eleanor.  "Philip,  do  you 
think  I  would  let  you  sell  your  soul  for  me !  Do 
you  think  1  would  ever  be  your  wife  then?  No 
— for  j  should  not  love  you.  I  should  despise 
you! — nay,  I  did  not  mean  that,  my  Philip" — 
and  her  voice  softened  almost  into  weeping — 
"  only  it  would  break  my  heart  if  you  did  this 
wicked  thing.  You  must  not — you  shall  'not — 
nay,  you  will  not.  My  own  Philip,  tell  me  that 
you  will  not." 

And  kneeling  before  him,  Eleanor  made  her 
lover  solemnly  take  the  promise  which  would 
for  years  doom  herself  to  the  long  sufferings  of 
hope  deferred.  Then  she  sat  down  beside  him, 
and  took  his  hand. 

"  Now,  Philip,  let  us  consider  what  is  best  to 
be*  done.  Do  not  think  of  yesterday  at  all,  if  it 
pains  you ;  only  talk  to  me  as  a  friend — a  dear 
friend — who  regards  your  honor  and  happiness 
above  every  thing  in  this  world.  Shall  it  be  so, 
Philip?" 

"  God  bless  my  Eleanor — my  strength — my 
comfort!"  was  his  answer.  The  words  were 
more  precious  to  her  than  the  wildest  outburst 
of  lover-like  adoration  could  ever  have  been. 

They  talked  together  long  and  seriously — like 
old  friends.  And  this  was  no  pretense,  for  none 
are  true  lovers  who  have  not  also  for  one  another 
the  still,  thoughtful  affection  of  friends.  Her 
calmness  gave  him  strength ;  her  clear,  pene- 
trating mind  aided  his;  and,  the  first  shock 
over,  Philip  seemed  to  pass  at  once  from  the 
dreaminess  of  aimless  boyhood  to  the  self-reli- 
ance and  courage  of  a  man.  And  still  beside 
him,  in  all  his  plans,  hopes,  and  fears,  was  the 
faithful  woman-heart,  as  brave,  as  self-denying, 
never  looking  back,  but  going  forth  with  him 
into  the  dim  future,  and  half  dispersing  its  mists 
with  the  blessed  light  of  love. 

"  And  you  will  forgive  me,  my  dearest,"  said 
Philip,  when  they  had  decided  how  and  where 
he  was  to  begin  the  hard  battle  with  the  world 
— "  you  will  forgive  me  for  bringing  this  fortune 
upon  you ;  and  in  spite  of  these  erring  words  of 
mine,  you  will — " 

He  hesitated,  but  Eleanor  went  on. 

"  I  will  wait — for  years  if  it  must  be — until 
Philip  makes  for  me  a  home — happier  and  dear- 
er for  the  long  waiting.  And  who  knows  how 
rich  it  may  be,  too? — a  great  deal  richer  than 
any  tiny  cottage  at  Wearmouth."  She  tried  to 
speak  gayly,  though  the  smile  her  lips  assumed 
could  not  reach  her  eyes,  and  soon  melted  into 
a  grave  look,  as  she  continued.  "Besides,  dear 
Philip,  there  is  one  thought  which  lies  deep, 
almost  painfully  in  my  heart,  though  your  gen- 
erous  lips  have  never  breathed  it.  I  can  not 
forget  that  half  your  cares  would  have  been 
lightened  had  the  girl  you  chose  possessed  ever 
so  little  fortune,  instead  of  being  left  dependent 
on  a  brother's  kindness.  Philip,  how  I  wish  to 
be  rich  for  your  sake,  that  I  might  requite  this 
dear  love  of  yours  for  me." 

"  You  do,  you  do !  you  are  my  riches,  my 
comfort,  my  joy !"  cried  Philip,  drawing  into 
his  very  heart  his  affianced  wife.  She  clung 
there  closer  in  sorrow  than  she  had  ever  done 
in  joy.  "  If  this  day's  trial  had  never  been,  and 
we  could  be  again  as  we  were  last  night — 
wouM  you  wish  it,  Eleanor?" 


42 


THE   OGILVIES. 


"  No  j"  she  answerec,  lifting  her  eyes  to  his, 
with  glad  pride  and  tenderest  love.  "  No !  for 
even  then  I  knew  not  fully  as  I  do  now,  how 
true,  how  worthy,  how  noble  was  my  Philip!" 

At  this  precise  moment  Mrs.  Breynton's  voice 
was  heard  without.  With  her  entered  an  old 
sub-dean,  who  lived  in  the  Close,  and  who  had 
come  in  nearly  every  evening  for  some  six  years, 
during  which  he  and  Mrs.  Breynton  had  played 
an  infinity  of  games  at  backgammon.  Mr.  Sed- 
ley  did  not  know  what  a  relief  his  presence  was 
this  evening,  by  casting  the  vail  of  outward 
formality  over  the  conflicting  emotions  of  the 
trio  at  the  Palace.  So  the  worthy  old  clergy- 
man talked  with  Philip  about  Oxford,  paid  his 
labored,  old-fashioned,  but,  withal,  affectionate 
compliments  to  his  particular  favorite,  Miss 
Ogilvie,  and  then  engaged  Mrs.  Breynton  in 
their  beloved  game.  During  its  progress  Elea- 
nor gladly  retired  for  the  night. 

At  the  foot  of  the  staircase  she  met  Philip, 
who  had  followed  unperceived.  He  looked  very 
pale,  and  his  voice  trembled,  though  he  tried  to 
speak  as  usual. 

"Eleanor,  say  good-night  to  me ;  not  formally, 
as  just  now,  but  as  we  did  that  happy  yesterday." 

She  took  both  his  hands,  and  looked  up  lov- 
ingly in  his  face. 

"  Good-night,  then,  dear  Philip !" 

He  folded  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  many 
times.  She  spoke  to  him  hopeful  words;  and 
they  were  uttered  insincerity,  for.  her  own  spirit 
was  so  full  of  love  and  faith,  both  in  God  and 
man,  that  she  had  little  doubt  of  the  future. 

"  To-morrow,  Philip ! — all  will  seem  brighter 
to  us  to-morrow,"  was  her  adieu. 

He  watched  her  glide  up  the  staircase,  turn- 
ing once  round  to  cast  on  him  that  quiet,  love- 
beaming  smile  peculiar  to  herself.  Then  he 
leant  against  the  wall  with  a  heavy  sigh. 

"The  bitterness  is  past,"  murmured  Philip. 
"Now  I  can  go  forth,  alone." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

Look  not  mournfully  into  the  past :  it  returns  no  more. 
Wisely  improve  the  present;  and  go  forth  into  the  shad- 
owy future  without  fear,  and  with  a  manly  heart. 

LONGFELLOW. 

ELEANOR  arose  next  morning  composed — 
almost  cheerful.  True,  there  had  been,  on  her 
first  waking,  a  feeling  of  oppression,  as  though 
some  vague  sorrow  had  chanced,  under  the 
shadow  of  which  she  still  lay ;  and  a  few  tears 
had  stolen  through  the  yet  closed  eyes,  chasing 
away  sleep,  and  making  the  faint  daylight  a 
welcome  visitant.  But  when  she  had  arisen,  and 
looked  out  on  the  bright  spring  morning,  all  this 
waking  pain  changed  into  a  quiet  hopefulness. 
One  creeps  so  soon  out  of  the  gloom  into  the 
light — at  least,  when  one  is  young !  Eleanor 
watched -the  early  swallows  flying  in  and  out  of 
the  eaves :  the  morning  sun  glistened  so  cheer- 
fully on  the  three  spires  of  the  cathedral,  though 
its  walls  still  lay  in  heavy  shadow.  But  the 
girl's  eyes  looked  upward  only,  and  therefore  it 
was  the  sunshine  she  saw,  not  the  shade. 

She  thought  of  Philip's  dear,  precious  love — 
flow  all  her  own — and  of  his  noble  nature,  both 
$  which  had  been  tried,  and  come  out  with  a 
orightness  which  made  her  forget  the  refining 


fire.  Dear  Eleanor !  her  sou]  was  sc  amvorldly, 
so  filled  with  trusting  affection,  that  she  had  no 
fear.  She  was  ready  to  let  her  lover  go  forth 

!  into  the  world,  believing  entirely  in  him,  and 

'  confiding  so  much  in  the  world  itself,  that  she 
felt  sure  its  storms  would  subside,  and  its  evils 
be  rem  oved,  by  the  very  influence  of  his  pure 
nature.  Simple  girl !  And  yet,  perhaps,  there 

.  was  more  in  her  theory  than  many  imagine  :  it 

:  is  the  faithful,  the  holy-hearted  ones,  who  walk 
calmly  and  safely  on  the  troubled  waters  of  the 
world. 

Eleanor  was  still  musing,  more  thoughtfully 

j  than  sadly,  and  considering  whether  or  not  she 
should  descend  to  tell  Philip  the  fruit  of  her 
hopeful  meditations,  when  the  maid  brought  a 
letter. 

"  Mr.  Wychnor  told  me  to  give  you  this, 

"  ma'am,  as  soon  as  I  heard  you  stirring." 

Eleanor  changed  color,  and  her  fingers  trem- 

;  bled  over  the  seal. 

"  I  hope,  Miss  Ogilvie,  that  nothing  is  amiss 
with  Master  Philip — Mr.  Wychnor,  I  mean — 
but  I  can't  get  out  of  the  old  ways,"  said  the 
servant,  whose  curiosity  was  spurred  on  by  real 
anxiety :  "  he  looked  so  ill  this  morning !  and  I 
could  not  persuade  him  to  have  any  breakfast 
before  he  went  away." 
"Went  away!" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  Miss ;  he  set  off  before  it  was 
quite  light,  by  the  early  London  coach." 

Eleanor's  fingers  tightened  over  the  unopened 
letter,  and  her  very  lips  grew  white;  yet  she 
had  self-control  enough  to  speak  calmly. 

"  Indeed,  Davis,  you  need  not  be  uneasy.  Mr. 
Wychnor  has  probably  taken  his  journey  a  day 
or  two  sooner  than  he  intended ;  that  is  all." 

"I'd  stake  my  life  it's  not  all,"  muttered  the 
good  woman,  as  she  courtesied  herself  out ;  I  only 
hope  there  is  nothing  wrong  between  him  and 
Miss  Eleanor — bless  their  dear  hearts !  they 
was  born  for  one  another,  sure-ly  !" 

Poor  Eleanor !  she  threw  herself  on  the  bed 
with  a  wild  burst  of  weeping,  that  for  many 
minutes  would  not  be  restrained  ! 

"Oh,  Philip,  Philip,  why  did  you..go?"  she 
said,  almost  aloud ;  and  it  was  long  before  her 
grief  found  any  solace  save  in  the  utterance  of 
this  despairing  cry.  She  was  but  a  girl — with 
all  the  weakness  of  a  deep  first  love — but  she 
had  also  its  strength.  So  after  a  time  her  sobs 
grew  calmer,  and  while  with  still-dimmed  eyes 
she  read  Philip's  letter,  its  peaceful  influence 
passed  into  her  spirit.  Even  then  it  was  so 
blessed  to  read  this  first  letter,  and  to  see  there 
written  down  the  love  which  she  had  before 
heard  his  lips  declare;  the  words  "Dearest 
Eleanor,"  smiling  at  her  from  the  top  of  the 

|  page,  almost  took  away  the  pain  of  that  sad 
hour.  And  as  she  read  on,  tracing  in  every 
earnest  line  the  brave,  true  heart  of  him  who 
wrote,  she  became  comforted  more  and  more. 

"  Eleanor  !"  ran  this  dear  record — (Reader, 
do  not  be  alarmed  lest  we  should  transcribe  an 
ordinary  love-letter,  for  though  full  of  affection, 
Philip  had  in  him  something  of  reserve,  and  far 
too  much  of  good  sense  ever  to  indulge  in  the 
wild  fantastic  rhapsodies  which  have  passed 
into  a  proverb) — "  Eleanor,  you  must  not  think 
this  departure  of  mine  hasty  or  ill-advised — un- 

!  kind  you  will  not — for  you  love  me,  and  know 
that  I  love  you  better  than  any  thing  on  earth ', 


THE  OGILVIES, 


therefore  there  can  be  no  thought  of  unkindness 
between  us.  I  have  gone  away,  because,  know- 
ing my  aunt  as  well  as  I  do,  I  see  no  hope  had  I 
remained,  but  added  bitterness  and  pain  for  us 
all.  And  though  I  can  not — I  dare  not  suffer 
myself  unworthily  to  enter  that  course  she  has 
laid  out  for  me,  God  forbid  that  I  should,  in  word 
or  deed,  return  evil  for  many  kindnesses  which 
she  has  shown  me  all  my  life  through.  0, 
Eleanor !  when  I  sit  here,  in  the  quiet  night- 
time, and  think  of  those  boyish  days,  I  almost 
doubt  whether  I  am  really  right  in  thwarting 
her  desire  so  much.  But  yet  I  could  not — no, 
Eleanor,  you  yourself,  with  your  pure  right- 
minded  ness,  said  I  ought  not  to  do  this  thing. 
And  have  I  not  also  given  up  you  ?  Surely  it 
must  be  a  holy  and  a  worthy  sacrifice  ! 

"  Dearest !  if  in  this  I  have  done  my  aunt 
wrong — and  I  feel  my  heart  melt  toward  her,  in 
spite  of  all  the  harsh  words,  ay,  and  the  bitter* 
taunts  which  she  gave  me  this'  night  when  you 
were  not  by — if  I  have  done  her  wrong  you  will 
atone  it.  She  reproached  me  with  casting  you  off 
— you,  my  heart's  treasure ! — she  said  that  her 
hearth  and  home  should  at  least  be  open  to  you. 
Let  it  be  so  !  Stay  with  her,  Eleanor ;  give  her 
the  dutiful  care  that  I  ought  to  have  shown : — 
it  will  comfort  me  to  know  this.  You  see  how 
I  trust  you,  Eleanor,  as  if  you  were  a  part  of 
myself — feeling  that  her  harsh  condemnations 
will  not  alter  your  love.  And  if  her  mind  should 
change — if  she  should  learn  to  see  with  our  eyes 
many  things  whereon  she  differs  from  us  now, 
and  should  find  out  why  it  was  I  acted  thus,  how 
will  the  influence  of  my  own  gentle  girl  prove  a 
blessing  to  us  all !  In  this  I  think  not  of  world- 
ly fortune.  I  will  fight  my  own  way,  and  be 
indebted  to  no  one  on  earth,  save  for  the  help 
of  affection. 

"  And  now,  Eleanor,  I  set  out  for  the  path  on 
which  we  decided.  Thank  Heaven  that  I  can 
write  we  ! — that  I  carry  with  me  your  precious 
love — that  we  are  one  in  heart  and  mind — and 
look  forward  to  one  future,  which  I  will  work 
out.  Send  me  away  with  a  blessing !  Yet  you 
have  done  so  already.  Eleanor,  that  one  smile 
of  yours — you  did  not  know  it  was  the  last,  but 
I  did — will  rest  in  my  heart  and  be  its  strength 
until  I  see  you  again.  Forgive  me  that  I  could 
not  trust  myself  to  say  *  Good-by.'  Yet  it  is 
hardly  a  farewell  between  those  whose  hearts 
and  thoughts  are  ever  united  !  God  grant  it 
may  be  even  so  until  our  lives'  end — and  after!  " 

More  did  Philip  write  concerning  his  worldly 
plans  and  the  arrangement  of  their  future  cor- 
respondence. All  that  he  said  was  calm ;  breath- 
ing perhaps  more  of  steadfast  patience  than  of 
hope — but  still  without  a  shade  of  fear  either 
for  himself  or  for  her.  When  Eleanor  laid  down 
the  letter  of  her  lover,  there  was  not  a  tear  in 
her  eye — not  a  sigh  on  her  lip. 

"God  be  with  thee,  my  beloved!"  she  said 
fervently  ;  put  the  letter  in  her  bosom,  and  went 
down  stairs. 

In  the  hall  she  met  the  old  waiting-woman, 
Davis,  coming  out  of  the  breakfast-room,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

"O,  Miss  Ogilvie!"  cried  the  poor  soul,  "I 
can't  tell  what  has  come  over  my  mistress. 
Sixteen  years  have  I  been  in  this  house  and 
never  saw  her  look  so  before.  She  did  not 
speak  a  word  all  the  while  I  was  dressing  her, 


until  Master  Philip's  little  djog  whined  at  the 
door,  and  then  she  grew  very  angry,  and  order- 
ed me  to  go  and  tell  James  to  shoot  it  or  hang 
it,  for  she  did  not  want  to  be  troubled  with  it 
any  more.  I  could  hardly  believe  my  ears,  Miss 
Eleanor — I  couldn't  indeed — so  good  as  she 
used  to  be  to  poor  little  Flo.  And  when  I  only 
stood  staring,  instead  of  going  off,  she  stamped 
her  foot  and  ordered  me  out  of  the  room.  To 
think  that  my  lady  should  have  served  me  so!" 

"She  did  not  mean  it,  good  Davis;  she  is 
very  fond  of  you,"  said  Eleanor,  soothingly. 
There  was  room  enough  in  that  dear,  warm 
heart  of  hers  for  every  one's  sorrows — great 
and  small. 

"  I  hope  so,  Miss ;  indeed,  I  should  not  care 
so  much,  except  that  I  fear  something  has  gone 
wrong  between  her  and  Master  Philip.  I  hap- 
pened to  let  fall  a  word  about  his  being  gone ; 
but  she  seemed  to  know  it  herself  beforehand. 
She  turned  round  so  sharply,  and  desired  me 
never  to  mention  his  name,  but  to  go  and  lock 
up  his  room  just  as  it  was,  for  he  would  not 
want  it  again.  Ay,  dear  !  how  sorry  I  shall  be 
not  to  see  the  young  maste'r  here  any  more !" 

Eleanor  felt  her  own  eyes  growing  dim,  and  a 
choking  in  her  throat  prevented  any  reply.  The 
good  woman  went  on  in  her  voluble  grief. 

"  Well,  well !"  servants  have  no  business  with 
their  masters'  or  mistresses'  affairs ;  but  I  do 
feel  sorry  about  poor  Master  Philip,  whom  I 
have  played  with  many  a  time  when  he  was  a, 
little  boy.  And  there  is  another  thing  that 
troubles  me  ;  he  left  me  this  letter  for  my  mis 
tress,  and  for  the  life  of  me  I  daren't  give  it  tc 
her  myself.  If  it  were  not  making  too  free,  Mis* 
Ogilvie,  I  wish  you  would." 

Eleanor  stretched  out  her  hand  for  the  letter 
"Where  is  Mrs.  Breynton?"  she  asked. 

"At  the  breakfast-table,  Miss — sitting  bolt 
upright,  like — I  don't  know  what ! — Bless  us  all 
— but  she's  off  already.  Poor  young  lady ! 
something  is  the  matter  with  her  too ;  for  I  saw 
the  tears  in  her  pretty  eyes.  Well,  I  don't  think 
she's  quarreled  with  Master  Philip,  or  she  would 
not  have  looked  at  his  letter  so  tenderly— just  as 
I  used  to  do  at  poor  Samuel's.  Ah,  lack-a-day ! 
it's  a  troublesome  world!" 

And  the  starched  old  maid  went  away  up-stairs, 
rubbing  with  a  corner  of  her  apron  each  of  her 
dull  gray  eyes.  They  might  have  been  young 
and  bright  once — who  knows  ? 

Mrs.  Breyton  sat,  a  very  statue  of  rigidity,  in 
her  usual  placa  at  the  head  of  the  table ;  hei 
face  as  smooth  and  unwrinkled  as  her  dress. 
She  said  "  Good  morning,  Eleanor,  my  dear," 
in  the  usual  tone — neither  warmer  nor  colder 
than  the  salutation  had  been  for  years ;  and  the 
hand  with  which  she  poured  out  the  coffee  was 
as  steady  as  ever.  Eleanor  almost  began  to 
think  that  the  painful  events  of  the  night  and 
morning  were  only  a  dream — so  perfectly  as- 
tounded was  she  by  the  manner  of  the  old  lady. 

She  had  come  with  a  swelling  heart  to  thr  :\v 
herself  at  the  knees  of  Philip's  aunt,  and  beg  her 
to  forgive  him — or  at  least,  to  receive  from  her- 
self all  the  loving  care  that  was  in  the  heart  of 
the  nephew  whom  she  had  discarded.  But  at 
the  sight  of  that  frigid,  composed  face — so  in- 
different, so  unmarked  by  any  sign  of  suffering, 
regret,  or  oven  anger — Eleanor  felt  all  her  own 
warm  impulses  completely  frozen-  *Phe  ?onld 


44 


THE  OGILVIES 


as  easily  have  po^ed  out  her  feelings  before  the 
grim  old  figures  sitting  in  their  niches  on  the 
•Id  cathedral  wall.  Philip's  letter  was  still  in 
her  hand— almost  unconsciously  she  thrust  it  out 
of  sight :  and  the  voice  which  replied  to  the 
morning  salutation,  though  tremulous,  was  al- 
most as  cold  as  Mrs.  Breynton's  own.  Eleanor 
took  her  place  at  the  breakfast  table  just  as 
though  she  had  never  passed  through  these 
sudden  phases  of  love,  joy,  sorrow — events  which 
would  govern  a  life-time. 

Mechanically  her  eyes  wandered  over  the 
familiar  objects  about  the  room  : — the  boy's 
portrait  that  hung  on  the  wall — the  orange-trees 
and  the  flowers  in  the  conservatory,  now  bright- 
ened by  a  'week's  more  sunshine.  It  was  one 
week  only  since  the  morning  when  Philip  and 
Philip's  fortunes  had  been  talked  of,  sending  such 
a  pleasant  thrill  to  her  heart : — how  much  one 
little  week,  nay,  one  day,  had  brought  forth ! 

Mrs.  Breynton  began,  apparently  without  an 
effort,  her  usual  morning  conversation.  This 
never  rambled  far  beyond  what  might  literally 
be  considered  table-talk :  the  dryness  of  toast, 
and  the  over  or  under-boiling  of  eggs,  seemed 
always  subjects  sufficiently  engrossing  at  that 
early  hour  of  the  day.  Thus  she  succeeded  in 
passing  away  the  half-hour  which  to  Eleanor 
seemed  insupportable.  The  latter  many  times 
was  on  the  point  of  giving  way  to  her  pent-up 
feelings,  when  a  word  or  tone  sent  them  all  back 
again  to  the  depth  of  her  heart.  How  would 
she  ever  find  courage  to  deliver  Philip's  letter  ? 

The  breakfast  equipage  was  already  removed, 
and  still  nothing  had  been  uttered  between  them 
except  those  ordinary  common-places  which 
froze  Eleanor's  very  heart. 

"If  you  please  ma'am,"  said  the  retreating 
James,  "  the  gardener  told  me  to  ask  if  you 
would  have  the  auriculas  planted  out,  as  the 
weather  is  so  warm  now,  and  he  has  always 
done  this  about  Easter  ?" 

There  was  the  faintest  possible  trembling  of 
Mrs.  Breynton's  mouth — and  she  dropped  a  few 
stitches  in  her  knitting.  Then,  walking  to  the 
window  to  take  them  up,  she  answered,  rather 
angrily — 

';  Tell  Morris  I  shall  judge  myself  about  the 
matter,  and  will  speak  to  him  to-morrow." 

Eleanor  Watched  all  with  intense  anxiety. 
She  marked  how  the  reference  to  Easter  had 
startled  Mrs.  Breynton  from  her  indifference — 
showing  how  much  of  it  was  assumed.  Tremu- 
lously she  advanced  to  the  window. 

"Shall  I  make  the  knitting  right  for  you?" 
she  asked. 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear ;  I  really  can  not  see 
*o  well  as  I  used  to  do,"  was  the  answer. 

Eleanor  gave  back  the  work,  and  with  it 
Philip's  letter. 

"  What  is  this  ?"  said  Mrs.  Breynton,  sharply. 

Eleanor  threw  herself  before  her.  "  0  !  dear 
friend,  read  it — pray,  read  it ;  and  then  you  will 
forgive  him — forgive  me.  Indeed,  you  do  not 
know  how  unhappy  we  are  !" 

Mrs.  Breynton  walked  across  the  room  to  the 
fire.  It  had  gone  out.  She  laid  the  letter  on 
the  table,  and  rang  the  bell.  Eleanor  rose  up 
as  the  man  entered. 

"  James,"  said  his  mistress,  "bring  me  a 
lighted  taper." 

When  it  came  she  deliberately  unsealed  the 


letter,  tore  it  into  long  strips,  and  burned  eacn 
of  them  separately.  Eleanor  stood  and  dared 
not  utter  a  word.  There  was  such  iron  stern- 
ness— such  implacable,  calm  determination — in 
that  rigid  face,  that  the  girl  was  terrified  into 
silence.  She  saw  the  words  which  Philip's  dear 
hand  bad  traced  consumed  to  ashes,  and  offered 
no  opposition.  Then,  Mrs.  Breynton  advanced, 
and  touched  the  girl's  forehead  with  her  cold, 
aged  lips. 

"Eleanor  Ogilvie,  you  shall  be  my  daughter 
if  you  will.  In  you  I  have  nothing  to  forgive — 
much  to  pity.  I  take  you  as  my  child — my  only 
one.  But  as  respects  this" — she  pointed  to  the 
little  heap  of  burnt  paper — "  or  its  writer,  the 
subject  must  never  more  be  breathed  between 
us." 

She  walked  out  of  the  room  with  her  own 
firm,  stately  steps;  her  silks  rustling  on  the 
staircase  as  she  ascended  slowly — but  not  more 
slowly  than  usual — to  her  chamber :  and  then 
Eleanor  heard  the  door  shut.  Upon  what  strug- 
gles it  closed— or,  if  there  were  any  conflict  at 
all — no  one  knew.  That  day,  and  for  a  day  or 
two  after,  there  was  a  grayer  shade  on  the 
cheek  already  pallid  with  age ;  and  once  or 
twice  in  reading  the  evening  prayers  the  cold, 
steady  voice  changed  for  a  moment.  But  in  a 
week  the  dean's  widow  was  the  same  as  she  had 
ever  been — and  all  went  on  at  the  palace  as 
though  Philip's  name  had  never  been  heard. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Authorship  is,  according  to  the  spirit  in  which  it  is  pur 
sued, — an  infamy,  a  pastime,  a  day-labor,  a  handicraft 
an  art,  a  science,  a  virtue.  SCHLKQEL. 

Take  away  the  self-conceited,  and  there  will  be  elbow- 
room  in  the  world.  WHICHCOTK. 

MR.  PIERCE  PENNYTHORNE  was  what  the 
world  respectfully  terms  a  "very  clever  man." 
The  world  understands  "cleverness"  thoroughly, 
and  venerates  it  accordingly,  though  it  often 
scoffs  at  genius.  Perhaps  on  the  same  principle 
the  cockney  who  gazes  in  admiration  on  the 
stone-built  fabric  of  St.  Paul's  turns  away  con- 
temptuously from  some  grand,  lonely  mountain 
of  nature's  making,  and  thinks  it  is  not  so  very 
fine  after  all.  He  can  not  measure  its  inches  ; 
he  does  not  understand  it.  He  had  rather  by 
half  look  up  from  his  city  dwelling  at  the  gilt 
cross  and  ball. 

Now,  Mr.  Pennythorne  was  exactly  the  man 
to  attract  and  keep  this  sort  of  admiration.  In 
whatever  sphere  he  moved — and  he  had  moved 
in  many  and  various  ones  during  his  sixty  years 
of  life — he  was  always  sure  to  get  the  preemi- 
nence. His  acute,  decisive  character  impressed 
ordinary  people  with  reverence,  and  his  tact  and 
quickness  of  judgment  had  enabled  him  to  ex- 
tract from  the  small  modicum  of  talent  which 
he  possessed  the  reputation  of  being  a  literary 
star  of  considerable  magnitude. 

For,  after  passing  through  various  phases  of 
life,  Mr.  Pennythorne  had  finally  subsided  into 
literature.  He  took  to  writing  as  another  man 
would  take  to  bricklaying-— considering  that 

"The  worth  of  any  thing 
Is  just  as  much  as  it  will  bring." 

And  as  literature  brought  him  in  some  hundreds 
a  year,  and  maintained  respectably  the  house  in 


THE  OGILVIES. 


45 


Blank  Square,  K  insington,  together  with  Mrs. 
Pennythorne  and  two  young  Pennythornes,  he 
regarded  it  as  a  \iseful  instrument  of  labor,  and 
valued  it  accordingly.  His  was  a  most  conven- 
ient pen,  too — a  pen  of  all-work.  It  would 
write  for  any  body,  on  any  subject,  in  any  style 
—•always  excepting  that  of  imaginative  litera- 
ture, in  wh.ch  road  it  had  never  been  known  to 
travel.  But  this,  as  its  owner  doubtless  believed, 
was  only  because  it  did  not  choose,  as  such 
writing  was  all  trash,  and  never  paid. 

Such  was  Mr.  Pennythorne  abroad :  at  home 
tte  carried  out  the  same  character,  slightly 
fayed.  He  was,  so  to  speak,  the  most  excellent 
if  tyrants ;  his  sway  was  absolute,  but  he  used 
<t  well.  No  ono  could  say  that  he  was  not  as 
good  a  husband  and  father  as  ever  lived;  that 
is,  as  far  as  outward  treatment  went.  Through- 
out some  thirty  years  of  matrimony,  he  and  his 
quiet,  good-natured,  meek-spirited  wife  had 
never  had  a  quarrel ;  and  he  had  brought  up  his 
children  to  be  creditable  members  of  society  by 
a  system  of  blind  obedience.  Nevertheless,  both 
wife  and  children  were  affectionately  inclined  to- 
ward him — for  some  people  are  happiest  when 
thus  ruled.  It  takes  away  so  much  moral  re- 
sponsibility. Sympathy  in  feeling  or  in  intellect 
was  unknown  in  the  Pennythorne  family ;  they 
did  not  believe  there  was  such  a  thing,  and  so 
they  lived  a  comfortable  hum-drum  lite,  con- 
scious of  no  higher  existence.  Doubtless  they 
were  quite  happy — and  so  are  oysters !  Stijl, 
the  most  world-tossed,  world-riven  spirit  that 
ever  passed  through  its  fire-ordeal  of  love,  ge- 
nius, and  suffering,  would  hardly  wish  to  change 
with  these  human  molluscs. 

Mr.  Pennythorne,  after  dinner,  in  his  little 
study,  with  the  blazing  fire  shining  on  its  well- 
peopled  book-shelves  and  convenient,  old-fash- 
ioned desk,  was  the  very  picture  of  a  man  of 
letters  comfortably  off  in  the  world.  He  had 
ensconced  in  the  only  arm-chair  which  the  room 
possessed  his  small,  wiry  frame — for  Mr.  Pen- 
nythorne shared  with  Alexander,  Napoleon,  and 
other  great  minds  the  glory  of  a  diminutive  per- 
son. As  he  sat  reading  the  newspaper,  with  his 
back  to  the  lamp,  the  light  cast  into  strong  relief 
his  sharp,  well-marked  features.  It  was  not  an 
intellectual  head — still  less  a  benevolent  one; 
but  there  were  wonderful  cleverness  and  shrewd- 
ness in  its  every  line.  The  firm,  closed  mouth 
could  sometimes  relax  into  a  very  good-natured 
smile ;  and  a  great  deal  of  dry,  satirical  humor 
lay  perdu  among  the  wrinkles — politely  termed 
crows'  feet — that  surrounded  the  small,  bright, 
gray  eyes. 

The"  postman's  sharp  knock  made  the  little 
man  start;  for  with  all  his  mental  self-posses- 
sion he  had  much  physical  nervousness.  At  the 
same  time  his  quick  movement  revealed  the 
presence  of  Mrs.  Pennythorne,  who  sat  in  the 
shadow,  with  a  half-knitted  stocking  on  her  lap. 
Her  husband  always  liked  her  to  be  near  him 
after  his  daily  occupation  was  over.  Not  that 
he  wanted  conversation,  for  to  that  Mr.  Penny- 
thorns  thought  no  woman  equal,  and  perhaps 
the  secret  of  his  regard  for  his  wife  was  her  ab- 
stinence from  all  intellectual  rivalship.  Good 
Mrs.  Pennythorne,  indeed,  had  never  been  bur- 
dened with  that  ambition.  But  the  sight  of  her 
quiet,  gentle,  and  still  pretty  face,  was  compos- 
ing to  him ;  and  she  let  him  talk  as  much  or  as 


little  as  he  liked,  said  "  Yes,"  or  "  No,"  or  "  Cer- 
tainly, my  dear,"  and  when  he  had  done,  went  to 
sleep.  They  were  exactly  suited  for  each  other, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pennythorne. 

She  received  the  letter  at  the  door— it  annoyed 
him  to  see  any  one  but  herself  in  his  study — and 
while  he  read  it  she  took  the  opportunity  of 
being  thoroughly  awakened,  to  go  through  the 
serious  operation  which  stocking-knitters  de- 
nominate "turning  down  the  heel."  Once  or 
twice  she  lifted  up  her  eyes  at  a  few  exclama- 
tions from  her  husband — "  Bless  me  !"  "  How 
very  odd!"  &c.  But  she  had  been  too  well 
trained  to  inquire  of  him  about  any  thing  which 
he  did  not  in  due  form  communicate.  So  she 
waited  until  he  delivered  himself  thus — 

"  Cillie,  my  dear" — Mrs.  Pennythorne's  Chris- 
tian name  was  Cecilia,  which,  by  a  humorous 
ingenuity,  he  had  converted  into  this  odd  dimin- 
utive— a  somewhat  doubtful  compliment — "  Cil- 
lie, my  dear,  this  is  a  very  curious  circumstance." 

"Is  it,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Pennythorne ;  not 
interrogatively,  but  assentingly.  Her  husband 
always  expected  to  be  understood  at  once,  with- 
out any  explanation — so  she  never  dreamed  of 
inquiring  to  what  circumstance  he  alluded. 

"You  remember  my  old  college  friend,  Ect 
win  Wychrior — Captain  Wychnor  he  was  then 
— who  dined  with  us  at  Sittingbourne,  ten — let 
me  see — fifteen  years  ago?" 

"  Oh,  yes !"  Mrs.  Pennythorne  made  a  point 
of  remembering  every  thing,  as  nothing  vexed 
her  spouse  so  much  as  the  confession  of  ignorance 
on  any  point  whereon  his  own  retentive  memory 
chose  to  rest. 

"  There  was  another  Oxford  man  with  us  that 
day,  you  know — Bourne — Dr.  Bourne  now— 
who  dropped  into  the  living  that  Wychnor  gave 
up,  like  a  foolish  fellow  as  he  was !  Well,  this 
letter  comes  from  him — not  from  Wychnor,  or 
it  would  be  a  dead  letter."  (Pennythorne;s 
conversation  was  usually  studded  with  execrable 
jokes,  made  comical  by  the  solemnity  with 
which  they  were  put  forward.)  "It  is  from 
Bourne,  introducing  to  me  the  defunct  captain's 
only  son,  who  has  gone  and  played  the  same 
madcap  trick  as  his  father.  He  wants  me  to 
get  the  lad  that  very  easy  thing  nowadays, 
'  employment  in  London.'  " 

"  Well,  my  dear,  surely  nobody  can  do  that  so 
well  as  you,"  meekly  observed  his  wife. 

"Pooh!  you  are  only  a  woman;  you  don't 
know  any  thing  at  all  about  it.  Pretty  fellows 
to  deal  with  are  these  college  youths,  with  heads 
more  full  of  pride  than  of  brains ;  can't  do  this 
because  they  hav'n't  been  brought  up  to  it — and 
won't  do  the  other  because  it  isn't  gentlemanly 
I  suppose  this  young  Peter,  or  Paul,  or  Jeremiah 
— he  has  got  that  sort  of  a  name — will  turn  out 
just  such  another  upon  my  hands.  But  that  is 
always  the  way ;  every  body  brings  stray  sheep 
to  me :  very  black  sheep  they  are,  too,  some- 
times." 

Mrs.  Pennythorne  laughed,  thinking  from  her 
husband's  look  that  he  had  said  something  funny : 
she  always  did  so,  like  a  dutiful  wife,  whether 
she  understood  it  or  not.  "And  I  am  sure, 
Pierce,  you  have  helped  a  great  many  young 
men  on  in  the  world.  There  was  young  Phillips, 
and  O'Mahony  the  Irishman,  and  Edward  Jones." 

"And  a  nice,  ungrateful  set  they  all  turned 
out!"  said  Mr.  Pennythorne,  though  a  self- 


THE  OGILVIES. 


complacent  smile  rather  contradicted  his  words. 
Thc.ro  was  nothing  in  the  world  that  he  liked  so 
well  as  patronizing.  Not  that  he  confined  him- 
self to  the  show  of  benevolence ;  for  he  was  a 
good-natured  man,  and  had  done  many  kindly 
acts  in  his  time — but  they  had  all  been  done 
with  due  importance.  His  proteges — and  he 
had  always  a  long  train  of  them — were  required 
implicitly  to  trust  to  him,  to  follow  his  bidding, 
and  to  receive  his  advice.  He  never  asked  for 
gratitude,  but  yet  he  always  contrived  to  rail  at 
the  world  because  he  did  not  receive  it.  Still, 
with  all  his  peculiarities,  Mr.  Pennythorne  did  a 
great  deal  of  good  in  his  way — and  rather  liked 
the  doing  of  it,  too,  though  he  said  he  didn't. 

"Gillie,"  he  observed,  just  as  the  summons 
came  to  tea,  "I  suppose  this  young  Wychnor 
must  dine  here  next  Sunday.  Take  care  that 
Fred  is  not  out  of  the  way,  and  that  that  foolish 
fellow,  Leigh,  is  not  keeping  his  bed,  as  he  is  so 
often.  What's  the  good  of  sons,  if  you  don't 
make  use  of  them  ?  And  an  old  fellow  like  me 
can't  be  bothered  to  entertain  a  young  Oxford 
scamp  for  a  whole  afternoon." 

The  same  sharp  postman's  knock — oh,  what 
a  volume  of  life-experiences  might  that  sound 
suggest,  could  we  follow  it  from  door  to  door ! — 
brought  to  Philip  Wychnor,  in  his  dull,  se'cond- 
floor  lodging,  the  following  letter : — 

"  MY  DEAR  YOUNG   FRIEND 

"I  had  a  great  regard  for  your  late  father, 
and  shall  have  the  same  for  you  if  you  deserve 
it,  of  which  I  have  little  doubt.  I  will  also  do 
my  best  to  help  you  on  in  the  world.  To  begin 
our  acquaintance,  perhaps  you  will  dine  at  my 
house  next  Sunday,  at  six. 

"  Faithfully  yours, 

"PIERCE  PENNYTHORNE." 

It  was  an  odd,  abrupt  letter,  but  Philip  had 
already  heard  that  the  writer  was  not  without 
his  eccentricities.  He  got  so  desolate  and  cheer- 
less in  his  strange  London  home,  that  the  least 
ray  of  kindness  came  upon  him  like  a  flood  of 
light.  He  drank  his  cup  of  weak,  cold  tea  with 
almost  the  zest  of  those  remembered  days  when 
Eleanor's  dear,  sunny  face  had  shone  from  behind 
the  urn,  in  the  happy  palace  drawing-room. 
Then  he  went  out,  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
gloomy  squares  in  whose  neighborhood  his  abode 
lay.  And  surely  the  dreariest  place  in  all  Lon- 
don is  the  region  between  Brunswick  Square 
and  Tottenham  Court  Road.  There  solemn 
wealth  sets  up  its  abode,  and  struggling  re- 
spectability tries  to  creep  under  its  shadow,  in 
many  a  dull,  melancholy  street;  while  squalid 
poverty  grovels  in  between,  with  its  miserable 
courts  and  alleys,  that  make  the  sick  and  weary 
heart  to  doubt  even  the  existence  of  good. 

Philip  sauntered  along,  but,  viewed  in  the  light 
of  this  new  hope  of  his,  the  squares  did  not  seem 
so  desolate  as  they  had  done  the  evening  before. 
Through  the  misty  night  the  lamps  glimmered 
faintly ;  after  a  while  the  moon  rose — and  the 
moon  looks  pleasant  to  young  eyes,  especially 
the  eyes  of  lovers,  even  in  the  desert  of  Russell 
Square.  Moreover,  as  Philip  walked  along  the 
inner  side,  there  was  a  freshness  almost  like 
perfume  in  the  budding  trees,  over  which  an 
April  shcwer  Ld<l  just  passed.  It  came  upon 
his  senses  like  the  breathing  of  hope*  He  stop- 


ped under  the  nearest  lamp,  took  cut  Mr.  Penny- 
thorne's  letter,  and  read  it  over  again. 

"Well,  it  does  seem  kind, _ and  may  be  the 
beginning  of  good.  Who  knows  but  I  have  put 
my  first  step  on  Fortune's  ladder  to-night?" 

Ah,  Philip !  that  ladder  is  of  all  others  the 
hardest  to  climb !  But  you  have  a  steady  foot 
and  a  strong  heart — all  the  stronger  for  having 
that  precious  love-amulet  in  its  inmost  folds.  In 
spite  of  all  the  gray-headed  reasoners,  there 
never  was  a  young  man  yet  who  did  not  work 
his  way  in  the  world  the  better  for  having  some 
one  to  work  for  beside  himself. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Wives  seem  created  to  be  Butts.  Many  a  man  "now, 
like  Pan,  plays  upon  that  which  was  formerly  the  object 
of  his  fond  pursuit.  EDWARD  WEST. 

Man  alone, 

The  recreant  spirit  of  the  universe, 
Contemns  the  operations  of  the  light ; 
Loves  surface-knowledge — calls  the  crimes  of  crowds 

Virtue — adores  the  useful  vices 

Therefore 
I  will  commit  my  brain  to  none  of  them. 

PHILIP  BAILEY. 

"  VERY  glad  to  see  you ;  exceedingly  glad  to 
see  you,  my  young  friend,"  was  the  greeting 
that  marked  Philip's  first  entrance  into  the 
drawing-room  at  Blank  Square  (we  prefer  that 
rather  doubtful  way  of  designating  the  Penny- 
thorne abode).  "Punctuality  is  a  virtue,  espe- 
cially on  a  wet  Sunday;  I  like  to  see  young 
people  keep  t'ime  well,  and  then,  as  they  grow 
older,  time  always  keep  them — eh,  sir?" 

Philip  smiled;  he  was  really  amused  by  the 
oddities  of  the  little  man.  He  could  do  no  more 
than  smite  silently,  for  it  was  impossible  to  get 
in  a  word. 

"Cecilia,  my  dear,"  and  Mr.  Pennythorne, 
with  a  sort  of  hop-skip-and-jump  movement — 
his  usual  method  of  progress  in  the  house — 
arrived  at  the  sofa  where  his  lady  sat,  in  all  the 
unruffled  serenities  of  a  Sunday  silk,  a  Sunday 
cap,  and  a  Sunday  face.  She  had  a  ponderous- 
looking  volume  beside  her,  of  Sermons,  or  Fox's 
Martyrs;  for  though  the  Pennythornes  so  far 
conformed  to  the  world  as  to  have  company  on 
a  Sunday,  they  were  "a  religious  family" — and 
if  the  cook  was  beguiled  out  of  her  sole  day  of 
rest  by  having  to  prepare  a  first-rate  dinner,  h 
was  atoned  for  by  the  mistress's  always  reading 
good  books  up  in  the  drawing-room. 

"  Mr.  Philip  Wychnor,  let  me  introduce  you 
to  Mrs.  Pennythorne,  my  wife,  sir ;  an  ugly  old 
woman,  isn't  she  ? — but  then  she's  so  clever — 
there  is  not  a  cleverer  woman  in  all  London  than 
Mrs.  Pennythorne." 

Philip  looked  at  the  pretty  but  most  inane 
face  of  the  lady,  and  then  at  her  husband,  who 
spoke  with  such  gravity  that  it  was  almost  im- 
possible to  distinguish  jest  from  earnest.  Fairly 
puzzled  between  them,  the  young  man  uttered 
some  ordinary  politeness,  and  accepted  the  of- 
fered seat  beside  his  hostess. 

"  There,  you  can  begin  your  acquaintance 
with  that  excellent  woman,"  said  Mr.  Penny- 
thorne; "but  take  care  of  her,  you  don't  know 
how  sharp  her  tongue  is — real  arrows,  sir — 
regular  darts  of  wit :  mind  they  don't  hit  you !" 

Philip  thought  it  rather  unseemly  that  a  ma* 


THE  OGILVIES. 


47 


should  make  game  of  his  wife  in  public,  and 
began  to  feel  somewhat  uncomfortable.  But 
Mrs.  Pennythorne  herself  seemed  quite  unmov- 
ed— smiling  on  in  placid  contentment.  She  had 
got  used  to  this  sort  of  banter — or  else,  which 
was  most  likely,  she  did  not  feel  it  at  all.  Some 
people  are  very  feather-beds  of  stolidity,  impen- 
etrable to  the  sharpest  tongue-weapons  that  sar- 
casm ever  forged.  Philip  soon  grew  quite  re- 
assured on  the  subject.  He  tried  to  engage 
Mrs.  Pennythorne  in  conversation ;  but  did  not 
succeed  in  getting  beyond  the  wetness  of  the 
day  and  the  unpleasantness  of  the  Kensington 
omnibuses.  She  was  as  shy  and  nervous  as  a 
girl  of  sixteen;  constantly  looking  to  her  hus- 
band, as  if  she  had  hardly  a  thought  of  her  own. 
Still  there  was  a  degree  of  quiet  womanliness 
about  her.  She  had  a  low  voice;  and  her 
brown  eyes  were  of  the  same  color  as  Elea- 
nor's. Philip  felt  rather  a  liking  to  Mrs.  Penny- 
thorne. 

"  Where  can  the  boys  be  ?"  said  the  old  gen- 
tleman, becoming  fidgety,  and  rushing  to  the 
foot  of  the  stairs.  Fred !  Leigh !" 

The  next  minute,  the  "boys"  appeared.  Mr. 
Frederick  Pennythorne  was  about  twenty-five ; 
a  specimen  of  that  stereotyped  class  of  young 
men  with  which  London  birth  and  London  breed- 
ing indulge  the  world.  Slight,  dapper,  active ; 
not  ill-looking,  and  carefully  dressed ;  always 
ready  for  polkas,  small  talk,  and  cigars ;  too 
respectable  for  a  gent  (odious  word  !),  too  ordi- 
nary and  vulgar-minded  for  a  gentleman,  and 
far^oh !  far — too  mean  in  heart  and  soul  for 
the  noble  title  of  a  man  ! 

This  individual  scanned  Philip  all  over,  and 
nodded  his  head  with  a  careless  "How-d'ye-do." 
Then  catching  his  father's  eye,  Mr.  Frederick 
composed  his  features  into  an  aspect  of  grave 
deference. 

"  My  son,  this — my  eldest  son.  Excellent 
fellow  to  show  you  all  the  wickedness  of  Lon- 
don, Mr.  Wychnor.  I  don't  suppose  there's 
a  greater  scamp  any  where  than  Fred  Penny- 
thorne." 

The  old  gentleman  did  not  know  how  nearly 
he  hit  the  truth — but  somehow  or  other  the  per- 
son alluded  to  winced  slightly  under  the  unin- 
tentional application. 

"Really,  father! — but  you  will  find  out  his 
ways  soon,  Mr.  Wychnor,"  said  Fred,  apologet- 
ically. 

"Where's  Leigh?"  continued  that  indefatiga- 
ble parent ;  who  seemed  to  have  as  much  diffi- 
culty in  hunting  up  his  family  as  a  mechanist 
has  in  winding  up  his  automata  and  setting  them 
fairly  going. 

A  tall  thin  youth  of  about  seventeen  crept 
languidly  from  behind  the  folding-doors.  Philip 
looked  rather  earnestly  at  the  sallow,  long- 
drawn-out  face,  and  meaningless,  half  closed 
eyes.  Perhaps  in  the  look  there  was  somewhat 
of  interest  and  compassion — for  the  boy  involun- 
tarily put  out  his  hand  and  just  touched  Philip's 
with  his  cold  moist  fingers.  The  heavy  eyes 
lifted  themselves  up  for  a  moment.  They  were 
brown,  like  his  mother's — but  far  deeper  and 
softer ;  and  as  they  met  Philip's,  one  passing 
gleam  of  intense  expression  lighted  them  up. 
It  drew  the  young  man's  heart  toward  the  sick- 
ly, awkward-looking  Leigh. 

"  I  hope  we  shall  b<*  very  good  friends  in 


time,"  said  Philip  Wychnor — shaking  the  boy'a 
hand  warmly. 

"That  is  more  than  any  one  else  ever  was 
with  our  cross-grained  Leigh !  Long,  lazy 
Leigh,  as  I  call  him — the  greatest  dunce  in  the 
universe,  except  for  a  little  Greek,  Latin,  and 
Hebrew  which  I  contrive  to  knock  into  him" — 
interposed  the  father,  who  seemed  to  take  de- 
light in  sketching,  en  passant,  these  compliment- 
ary family  portraits. 

Philip  turned  round  uneasily  to  Leigh ;  but 
the  youth  sat  in  his  old  corner  quite  impassive. 
The  dull  melancholy  of  his  face  was  as  unim- 
pressible  as  his  mother's  vacant  and  perpetua 
smile. 

"Well,  they  are  the  oddest  family  I  evei 
knew,"  thought  Phillip  Wychnor.  "Perhaps 
your  son  is  not  strong  enough  for  much  study?" 
he  said  aloud. 

"  Quite  a  mistake,  my  good  sir,"  answered 
Mr.  Pennythorne,  sharply.  "  All  my  family  en- 
joy excellent  health.  I  can't  bear  to  have  sick 
people  about  me.  That  fellow  there  looks  yel- 
low because  he  lies  in  bed  sadly  too  much ;  and 
besides,  it  is  his  temperament,  his  natural  com- 
plexion. Pray,  do  not  put  such  notions  into  the 
lad's  head,  Mr.  Wychnor." 

The  guest  felt  that  he  had  unconsciously 
trodden  on  dangerous  ground;  and  it  was 
really  a  relief  when  the  apparition  of  a  very 
tall  maid-servant  at  the  door  gave  the  signal 
for  dinner. 

Mr.  Pennythorne  was  the  best  person  in  the 
world  for  the  head  of  a  table — his  own  especial- 
ly; for  he  had  an  unfailing  flow  of  talk  and 
abundance  of  small  witticisms.  To  use  a  simile 
on  the  originality  of  which  we  have  some  doubt 
— but  which,  not  knowing  the  right  owner,  we 
shall  appropriate — he  kept  the  ball  of  conversa- 
tion constantly  in  motion.  However,  to  attain 
this  desirable  end  he  rarely  let  it  go  out  of  his 
own  hands.  Perhaps  this  was  as  well,  for  the 
rest  of  his  family  seemed  almost  incapable  of  a 
throw.  So  he  very  wisely  never  gave  them  the 
opportunity. 

Once  or  twice  Fred  Pennythorne  hazarded  a 
remark— 'Or,  as  he  would  have  expressed  it,  "put 
out  a  feeler" — thereby  to  discover  the  habits, 
manners,  and  character  of  the  "fellow  from  the 
country;,"  but  he  was  soon  extinguished  by  a 
few  paternal  sneers.  Mrs.  Pennythorne,  also, 
replying  at  greater  length  than  in  monosyllables 
to  some  observation  of  Philip,  was  regarded 
with  such  mock-deferential  attention  by  her  lord 
and  master  that  she  relapsed  into  alarmed  and 
inviolable  silence.  As  for  Leigh,  he  never  tried 
to  speak  at  all.  When,  soon  after  the  introduc- 
tion of  wine  and  walnuts,  Mrs.  Pennythorne  dis- 
appeared, he  quickly  followed  his  mother,  and 
was  seen  no  more. 

Then  Mr.  Pennythorne  edified  Philip  for  the 
space  of  half  an  hour  on  many  and  various  sub- 
jects, chiefly  political.  Fortunately,  Wychnor 
was  no  great  talker,  and  of  a  quiet,  yielding 
temper — so  that  the  dictatorial  tone  of  his  host 
did  not  annoy  him  in  the  least.  Perhaps  he 
only  listened  with  his  outward  ears,  while  his 
thoughts,  like  riches — and  Philip's  thoughts 
were  riches  to  him — made  to  themselves  wings 
and  flew  far  away. 

"  Fred !  you  stupid  fellow,"  called  out  Mr. 
Pennythorne,  at  last 


48 


THE  OGILVIES. 


"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  tne  individual  addressed, 
waking  fiom  a  doze  by  the  fire. 

"  Your  conversation  is  so  remarkably  amusing 
and  instructive  that  it  is  quite  too  overpowering 
for  such  addle-pates  as  this  gentleman  and  my- 
self. We  will,  therefore,  indulge  ourselves  in  a 
tete-a-tete  dull  enough  for  our  limited  capabil- 
ities. You  mav  go  and  tell  your  mother  to 
make  the  tea  :  L  dare  say  cook  will  lend  you  the 
toasting-fork,  that  you  may  make  yourself  use- 
ful in  the  kitchen  at  least." 

The  young  dandy  muttered  a  grumbling  re- 
monstrance— but  finished  his  wine,  and  walked 
otf.  It  was  really  curious,  the  complete  as- 
cendency which  this  eccentric  father  of  a  family 
had  gained  and  still  preserved  over  all  its  mem- 
bers. 

"Excellent  boy  that,"  said  Mr.  Pennythorne 
when  the  door  closed :  and  Philip  noticed  how 
entirely  his  sarcastic  manner  was  changed; 
"  Fred  is  a  rising  young  man,  sir ;  no  profession 
like  that  of  a  lawyer  for  making  a  fortune — at 
least  in  these  railway  times.  That  lad  will  ride 
in  his  carriage,  yet." 

"Indeed,  I  hope  so,"  Philip  observed,  seeing 
that  an  observation  was  expected. 

"  Certainly.  The  Penny thornes,  sir,  always 
make  their  way  in  the  world.  Now  there's 
keigh — quiet  boy — very  quiet,  but  thinks  the 
more  for  that.  His  knowledge  of  classics  is 
wonderful.  I  shall  make  him  a  first-rate  man 
for  Oxford.  By-the-by,  you,  who  have  just  left 
Alma  Mater,  might  give  him  a  help  now  and 
then  when  I  am  too  busy  myself." 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  be  of  service,"  said 
Philip. 

"Of  course — of  course.  Thank  you,  Mr. 
Wychnor.  And  now,  tell  me  in  what  way  I  can 
be  of  service  to  you?" 

The  little  man  leaned  over  the  table,  and 
confronted  Philip  "with  his  peering  gray  eyes. 
All  his  jesting  manner  was  gone ;  and  there 
was  a  straight-forward  business-like  earnest- 
ness, which  his  guest  liked  much  better  and 
felt  infinitely  more  disposed  to  trust.  Philip 
briefly  stated  that  having  suddenly  relinquished 
the  Church,'  he  was  without  resources,  and 
wished  to  earn  a  livelihood  in  any  respectable 
way  for  which  his  education  might  fit  him. 

"  Now,  my  young  friend,  what  do  you  call  a 
'respectable  way?'  "  said  Mr.  Pennythorne. 

Philip  was  rather  confused — but  answered, 
"  Any  honest  way,  of  which  a  gentleman's  son 
need  not  feel  ashamed.  Surely  the  world  is 
wide  enough  for  one  more  to  get  his  bread — if 
not  by  his  hands,  at  least  by  his  brains — of  which 
I  hope  I  have  a  share." 

"No  doubt — no  doubt,"  returned  Mr.  Penny- 
thorne, "  But  let  us  see  how  you  are  to  use 
them.  Authorship  is  not  a  bad  profession. 
Suppose  you  take  to  that." 

Philip  looked  somewhat  astonished.  "My 
dear  sir,  I  never  wrote  any  thing  in  my  life.  I 
nave  no  genius!" 

"  Genius — my  excellent  young  friend,  between 
ourselves,  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter. 
It  is  a  commodity  rather  unpleasant  than  other- 
wise. A  man's  genius  generally  ends  in  making 
a  fool  of  him — or  a  beggar,  which  comes  to  the 
same  thing.  The  best  authors,  and  those  who 
have  made  most  money,  have  had  no  genius  at 
•"  With  olenty  of  diligence  and  a  good  con- 


all 


nection,  a  clever  author  may  get  a  very  good 
living ;  while  the  poor  devils  called  men  of  genius 
— a  term  for  unusual  flightiness  and  conceit — lie 
down  and  starve." 

Philip  listened  to  this  speech,  first  in  surprise, 
then  in  pain.  He  had  spoken  truly — at  least  as 
he  then  believed— when  he  said  he  had  no 
genius;  but  genius  itself  he  worshiped  with 
all  the  wild  enthusiasm  of  youth.  So  utterly 
confounded  was  he  by  this  argument  of  Mr. 
Pennythorne's,  that  he  did  not  reply  by  a  single 
word ;  and  the  old  gentlaman  continued— 

"You  see,  Mr.  Philip  Wychnor,  that  I  have 
spoken  plainly  to  you,  as*"  I  would  not  to  every 
one ;  but  I  like  your  face,  and,  moreover,  you  are 
your  father's  son.  If. you  choose  to  try  your 
hand  at  authorship,  I  will  endeavor  to  procure 
you  work.  It  shall  be  easy  at  first,  and  you  can 
get  on  by  degrees." 

But  Philip  shook  his  head.  "  No,  Mr.  Penny- 
thorne ;  I  feel  too  certain  of  my  own  incapacity, 
and  literature  has  always  seemed  to  me  so  high 
and  holy  a  calling." 

At  this  moment  the  young  man  met  the  up- 
turned face  of  his  host — the  cold,  cautious  eyes 
watching  him  with  a  look  something  between 
j  wonder  and  curiosity,  and  the  sarcastic  mouth 
;  bent  into  the  most  contemptuous  of  polite  sneers. 
:  Now,  it  was  one  of  Philip's  weaknesses  that  his 
sensitive  and  reserved  disposition  was  ever  pain- 
;  fully  alive  to  ridicule.     As  before  said,  he  was 
|  by  no  means  one  of  your  model  heroes  who  are 
ever  ready  to  "stand  fire,"  either  physically  01 
morally.     And  so  it  happened  that  this  look  of 
Mr.  Pennythorne's  just  sufficed  to  drive  back  all 
his  warm  impulses.     He  forgot  what  he  was 
about  to  say,  stopped,  and  his  delicate  cheek 
changed  color  like  a  girl's. 
"Pray,  go  on,"  said  the  host. 
"I  have  nothing  more  to  say,  sir,"  he  replied, 
"  except  that  I  feel  obliged  for  your  kindness  j 
but  not  thinking  myself  competent  to  do  credit 
to  authorship,   I  had  rather   not   attempt   it." 
Thereby  he  lost  an  excellent  chance  of  "  testi- 
fying to  the  truth,"  and  will  doubtless  sink  very 
much  in  the  estimation  of  all  who  would  have 
virtue   and   genius   continually   appear   in   the 
character  of  public  lecturers.    But  Philip  Wych- 
nor was  so  reserved  and  humble-minded,  that  as 
yet  he  was  unaware  of  half  the  treasures  of  his 
intellect. 

Yet  though  he  could  not  fathom  the  depths  of 
his  own  mind;  he  could  see  a  good  way  into 
Mr.    Pennythorne's;    and   the   sight  was   both 
painful   and   discouraging.      The   conversation 
I  went  on,  and  Philip  listened  with  the  deference 
j  that  his  companion's  age  and  character  demand- 
ed ;  but  there  was  a  disagreeable  sense  of  un- 
|  congeniality,  almost  amounting  to  distrust,  in 
the  young  man's  mind. 

Mr.  Pennythorne  did  not  notice  this  in  the 
least ;  for  his  perception,  though  acute,  was  by 
no  means  delicate.  He  talked  fast  and  freely., 
not  to  say  ostentatiously,  of  his  influence  in  other 
quarters — discussed  the  various  duties  and  ad- 
vantages  of  employment^  as  banker's  elerk, 
merchant's  clerk,  railway'  cJerk,  and  Philip's 
capacity  for  the  same,  until  his  young  auditor 
grew  half  bewildered  and  wholly  disconsolate. 
At  last,  it  was  agreed  that  as  Wjchnor  had  a 
little  money  for  the  present,  he  should  stay  in 
his  fodgings,  and  enter  on  the  wreary  life  of 


THE  OGILVIES. 


49 


'waiting  for  a  situation."  This  interregnum 
would  not  last  long,  Mr.  Pennythorne  was  cer- 
iain  : — and  indeed,  from  his  conversation,  he 
seemed  able  to  scatter  appointments  abroad  as 
thick  as  leaves  in  autumn. 

"Now,  my  young  friend" — Mr.  Pennythorne 
had  such  a  host  of  young  friends  on  his  list — 
"  excuse  my  making  you  one  of  the  family,  and 
sending  you  up-stairs  while  I  take  a  nap.  Old 
people  must  be  humored,  you  know.  You  will 
find  the  boys  in  the  drawing-room." 

Philip  was  not  sorry  to  receive  this  somewhat 
unceremonious  conge.  As  he  stood  alone  on  the 
stairs  he  tried  to  collect  his  thoughts,  and  to 
struggle  with  a  vague  feeling  of  discomfort. 

"  This  is  very  foolish  of  me !"  he  said  to  him- 
self; "  I  shall  not  get  every  one  in  the  world  to 
think  and  feel  exactly  as  I  do : — how  could  I 
expect  it  ?  Mr.  Pennythorne  seems  a  very  good 
sort  of  man — kind,  too,  in  his  own  way ;  he  will 
most  likely  do  something  for  me ;  and  then,  once 
getting  a  start  in  life,  I  have  my  fortune  in  my 
own  hands — that  is,  with  Heaven's  blessing." 
And  the  cme  reverent  aspiration  of  that  young, 
pious  spirit  calmed  its  jarring  doubts  into  pa- 
tient hope. 

"Still,"  thought  Philip,  when,  after  a  prosy 
evening  and  a  walk  of  three  miles,  he  laid  his 
tired  head  on  his  rather  hard  pillow  just  as  St. 
Pancras  clock  was  striking  twelve,  "  still,  I  am 
rather  glad  that  Mr.  Pennythorne  did  not  ask 
my  reasons  for  giving  up  the  church :  he  would 
not  have  understood  them,  any  more  than  aunt 
Breynton.  I  don't  think  any  body  does  quite 
understand  me  except  Eleanor." 

And  with  that  dear  name  on  his  lips  and  in 
his  heart,  Philip  Wychnor  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

What  is  there  that  I  should  turn  to,  lighting  upon  days 

like  these  ? 
Every  door  is  barred  with  gold,  and  opens  but  to  golden 

keys. 
Every  gate  is  thronged  with  suitors;  all  the  markets 

overflow. 

1  have  but  an  angry  fancy :  what  is  that  which  I  should  do  ? 

TENNYSON. 

Keep  thy  spirit  pure 

From  worldly  taint  by  the  repellent  strength 
Of  virtue.        *        *       * 

Walk 

Boldly  and  wisely  in  the  light  thou  hast: 
There  is  a  Hand  above  will  help  thee  on. 

PHILIP  BAILEY. 

IT  is  impossible  to  imagine  a  life  more  utterly 
dull  and  dreary  than  that  of  a  young  man  living 
alone  in  London,  with  few  friends,  with  no  pur- 
suit to  occupy  his  time,  and  with  no  money  to 
allure  him  into  agreeable  or  vicious  ways  of 
killing  it.  Philip  Wychnor  thought  that  each 
week,  each  day,  grew  longer  and  longer.  He 
nad  read  through  and  through  all  the  books  he 
had  brought  with  him,  and  was  unable  to  buy 
or  borrow  more.  Then  he  tried  to  "rub  up" 
his  old  studies  at  Oxford  ;  but  working  without 
an  aim  is  a  thankless  occupation.  His  whole 
course  of  life  had  been  disturbed,  and  he  could 
not  settle  down  again. 

He  grew  tired  of  his  dingy  little  parlor  where 
tfca  sun  just  peeped  in  at  early  morning — after 
which,  as  though  disgusted  with  the  place,  it 
I) 


departed  for  the  day  with  the  breakfast  things. 
So,  he  took  to  strolling  about  London,  and  phi- 
losophizing on  human  nature  in  its  citizen  aspect. 
This  soon  made  him  more  heart-weary  still. 
He  then  sought  after  all  the  places  of  amuse- 
ment that  were  open  free.  Fortunately,  among 
this  class  London  now  numbers  some  of  its 
highest  and  most  intellectual  feasts.  Philip 
spent  many  an  hour  amid  the  quiet  gloom  of 
the  Elgin  room — until  he  knew  by  sight  all  the 
student  votaries  of  Art  who  seek  to  re-create  a 
Theseus  or  an  Ilyssus  on  their  drawing-boards. 
Many  a  long  morning,  too,  did  Wychnor  loiter 
in  the  National  Gallery;  a  place  that  looks 
always  fresh  and  pleasant,  and  sunshiny — for  is 
there  not  perpetual  sunshine  with  Guido,  and 
Titian,  and  Claude?  Often  and  often  Philip 
entered  with  his  spirit  so  broken  and  desponding, 
that  the  May  brightness  and  cheerfulness  of  the 
streets,  seemed  only  to  insult  his  lonely  poverty. 
He  knew  nothing  of  Art  save  through  the  spell 
by  which  its  glory  and  beauty  must  ever  influ- 
ence minds  like  his  own.  But  the  spirit  of 
Guido  spoke  peace  to  him  through  the  mourn- 
ful-eyed Magdalene,  or  the  Child  Jesus  with  its 
face  of  pale  purity  gazed  on  by  reverent  John ; 
while,  grand  and  solemn,  loomed  out  of  the 
darkness  the  figure  of  Piombo's  Lazarus — and 
in  Da  Vinci's  Ecce  Homo  the  suffering  God- 
man  looked  in  sublime  compassion  on  the  Vir- 
gin's mother-woe.  Pictures  such  as  these  Philip 
loved  best;  for  in  this  season  of  anxiety  their 
sorrowful  and  holy  beauty  touched  and  soothed 
his  spirit. 

And,  turning  for  a  moment  from  our  story 
to  the  individual  memories  which  its  progress 
brings,  let  us  linger  in  the  place  whither  we 
have  led  Philip  Wychnor ;  a  place  so  full  of  old 
associations  that  even  while  thinking  of  it  we 
lay  down  our  pen  and  sigh.  Good,  careless 
reader — mayhap  you  never  knew  what  it  was 
to  lead  a  life  in  which  sorrow  formed  the  only 
change  from  monotony,  a  life  so  solitary  that 
dream-companions  alone  peopled  it,  nor  how, 
looking  back  on  that  dull  desert  of  time,  one 
remembers  lovingly,  the  pleasant  spots  that 
brightened  it  here  and  there — how  in  traversing 
the  old  haunts  our  feet  linger,  even  while  we 
contrast  gladly  and  thankfully  the  present  with 
the  past.  Else  you  would  not  wonder  that  we 
stay  for  a  moment  with  our  Philip  Wychnor; 
walking  in  fancy  from  room  to  room ;  gazing  at 
every  well-known  picture,  whose  beautiful  and 
benign  influence  was  so  blessed  to  us  of  old; 
and  seeing,  also,  living  faces  that  were  once 
beside  us  there — some,  most  dear  of  all  on  earth 
—others,  on  whom  we  shall  never  more  look 
until  we  behold  them  in  heaven. 

The  theme  grows  too  solemn.  Readers — 
whom  at  times  every  author  takes  strangely 
enough  into  his  heart's  depths,  as  he  takes  not 
even  those  who  sit  at  his  board  and  drink  of  his 
cup — if  you  can  understand  this  digression,  you 
will  forgive  it — if  not,  pass  it  by ! 

Philip  Wychnor  had  no  acquaintance  in  Lon- 
don except  the  Pennythornes.  He  went  to 
Blank  Square — sometimes  by  invitation,  and 
now  and  then  without.  But  he  had  a  great 
belief  in  that  verse  of  the  Proverbs — "  Refrain 
thy  foot  from  thy  neighbor's  house,  lest  he  be 
weary  of  thee,  and  so  hate  thee  :"  therefore  his 
visits  always  kept  within  due  limits.  Still  it 


50 


THE  OGILVIES. 


was  undeniable  that  ac  took  pleasure  in  being 
received  with  friendliness  into  this  always  hos- 
pitable house— for  hospitality  was  one  of  Mr. 
Pennythorne's  virtues.  True,  the  family  circle 
was  somewhat  dull  if  its  head  chanced  to  be 
absent;  but  then,  in  Philip's  present  state  of 
isolation,  any  family  fire-side  was  a  welcome 
change  from  the  solitary  dreariness  of  his  own. 
So  he  grew  to  take  pleasure  in  Mrs.  Penny- 
thorne's meaningless  but  good-tempered  smile, 
and  Mr.  Pennythorne's  unfailing  talk — the  very 
ostentatiousness  of  which  was  amusing.  With 
the  younger  members  of  the  household,  Philip's 
acquaintance  advanced  little ;  for  Frederick  was 
rarely  at  home  in  the  evening,  and  Leigh  main- 
tained the  same  dull — almost  sullen — silence. 
Now  and  then,  when  Philip  chanced  to  talk  a 
little  more  earnestly  than  usual,  he  detected  the 
large  brown  eyes  watching  him  with  curious 
intentness ;  but  if  he  returned  the  look  they  fell 
at  once,  and  Leigh's  countenance  relapsed  into 
its  customary  stolidity.  Still,  when  Philip's 
thoughts  wanted  occupation,  they  sometimes 
turned  to  speculate  on  this  rather  singular  boy. 

Alas  for  Philip — he  had  only  too  much  time 
for  thinking !  and  as  month  after  month  rolled 
on,  and  he  had  still  no  occupation,  his  thoughts 
became  mournful  indeed.  Each  week  Eleanor 
sent  him  one  of  her  long,  cheering  letters — no 
young-lady  epistles  nor  romantic  love-breathings 
— but  a  sensible  woman's  letters;  thoughtful, 
sincere,  and  full  of  that  truest  affection  which 
expresses  itself  less  in  words  than  in  deeds. 
.  She  knew  not,  that,  but  for  these  letters,  her 
lover's  mind  would  have  sunk  from  its  healthy 
tone  and  manly  strength,  into  the  morbid  apathy 
of  delayed  hope  or  the  misanthropy  and  bitter- 
ness of  despair. 

It  was  not  the  sting  of  actual  poverty  that 
Philip  felt  so  keenly.  Most  truly,  it  requires  a 
degree  of  moral  courage  to  brave  the  summer 
sunshine  of  London  streets  in  a  threadbare  coat 
— and  it  is  rather  a  trial  of  patience  to  sit  down 
to  a  fragment  of  homely,  ill-cooked  dinner ;  but 
these  are,  after  all,  only  externalities,  and  very 
endurable.  When  the  mind  has  its  own  food  of 
present  content,  and  a  certainty,  if  ever  so  little, 
for  the  future,  a  well-earned  dish  of  potatoes  is 
by  no  means  such  a  miserable  repast ;  and  a 
man  with  a  pure  conscience,  and  hope  in  his 
bosom,  can  button  over  it  his  shabby  garment, 
and  walk  the  street  with  a  brow  as  clear — ay, 
and  as  lofty — as  any  of  his  brethren  in  the  pur- 
ple and  fine  linen  of  the  world. 

Therefore,  as  Philip  Wychnor  had  always  held 
his  body  much  less  precious  than  his  soul,  we 
shall  not  pity  him  for  any  of  these  endurances. 
He  would  h'ave  scorned  it.  But  deepest  pity, 
indeed,  he  needed,  during  that  weary  summer, 
when  the  agony  of  uncertainty,  the  tortures  of 
"sitting  still  and  doing  nothing,"  gnawed  into 
his  very  soul.  Poor  fellow !  many  a  time  he 
envied  the  stone-breaker  in  the  street,  who  at 
least  had  the  comfort  of  working  all  day  and 
was  certain  of  his  future.  At  last,  he  went  to 
Mr.  Pennythorne,  and  spoke  openly,  earnestly — 
almost  despairingly. 

"My  good  fellow!"  exclaimed,  with  some 

surprise,  that  excellent  individual — he  had  seen 

,  the  young  man  come  to  his  house  now  and  then. 

to  dinner  or  tea,  with  a  composed  countenance 

wid  decent  dress,  so  felt  his  conscience  quite  at 


ease  respecting  his  protege — "I  had  no  idea  tha 
you  were  in  such  a  plight  as  this :  you  never 
complained." 

"  Is  it  likely  I  should,  sir  ?"  said  Philip,  proudly. 
"  Nor  do  I  now ;  I  am  very  thankful  for  all  the 
efforts  which  I  believe  you  have  made  on  my 
behalf,  but  I  begin  to  think  there  is  no  occupa- 
tion to  be  had — at  least,  none  that  I  can  do. 
The  misfortune  lies  in  my  being  brought  up  that 
very  useless  thing — a  gentleman."  And  Philip 
laughed  bitterly.  "  However,  I  cuu  remed/ 
this ;  I  will  leave  London,  change  Juy  'name, 
and  get  work  as  a  farmer's  laborer.  A  mechan- 
ic's place  is  above  me,  unfortunately,  a*  I  had 
not  even  the  blessing  of  learning  a  trade.  But 
work  I  must  have,  or  I  shall  go  mad." 

"I  begin  to  think  you  are  t>o  already,'"  mut 
tered  Mr.  Pennythorne,  as  with  some  touch  of 
compassion  he  regarded  the  young  man's  wild 
eyes  and  haggard  face.  A  faint  whisper  of  con- 
science, too,  hinted  that  he  himself  had  not  used 
Philip  quite  well :  not  but  that  he  had  tried  to 
serve  him — writing  to  two  or  three  friends,  and 
speaking  to  two  or  three  more,  about  "a  young 
man  who  wanted  employment."  But  Mr.  Pen- 
nythorne had  erred  where  most  ostentatious,  pa- 
tronizing men  err :  and  woeful  is  the  misery  which 
they  bring  on  their  dependents  by  the  same  !— 
promising  far  too  much,  and  boasting  of  imagin 
ary  influence,  to  gratify  a  petty  love  of  power. 

There  never  yet  was  human  heart  so  naturall) 
cold,  or  so  frozen  over  by  outward  formalities, 
that  you  could  not  find  in  one  corner  or  other 
some  fountain  of  goodness  bubbling  up.  No 
matter  how  soon  it  disappears — it  has  been,  and 
therefore  may  be  again.  Now,  just  such  a  spring 
as  this  began  to  irrigate  that  very  dry  and  dusty 
portion  of  Mr.  Pennythorne's  anatomy  which  lay 
under  his  left  waistcoat  pocket ;  and,  by  a  curious 
sympathy  between  external  and  internal  things, 
he  remembered  that  there  was  in  this  said  pocke* 
a  five-pound  note.  His  fingers  even  advanced 
nearer  to  it — they  touched  it — but  just  at  this 
moment  a  loud,  fashionable  knock  came  to  the 
hall-door,  and  the  tiny  fountain  in  Mr.  Penny- 
thorne's heart  sank  suddenly  down.  Still,  it  had 
watered  a  little  the  arid  soil  around. 

"  Come  and  dine  with  me  to-morrow,  my  dear 
boy,"  he  said,  cordially;  "and  cheer  up.  I'll 
think  of  something  for  you  by  that  time." 

"  To-morrow — to-morrow — to-morrow,"  sigh- 
ed Philip,  mechanically  repeating  that  word  of 
mournful  beguiling.  As  he  descended,  he  passed 
in  the  hall  a  stylish  little  lady,  who  had  just 
stepped  from  her  carriage,  and  was  busy  im- 
pressing on  the  servant  "Mrs.  Lancaster's  wish 
for  only  five  minutes'  speech  of  Mr.  Pennythorne." 
Philip  stood  aside  to  let  the  visitor  pass  by — and 
then  departed.  He  crept  wearily  along  the  sunny 
side  of  the  square,  all  glare,  and  dust,  and  burn 
ing  heat ;  and  there  came  idly  jingling  through 
his  brain,  in  that  season  of  care,  so  dull,  heavy, 
and  numbing  as  to  shut  out  all  consecutive 
thought,  the  fragment  of  olden  rhyme — 

"  Why,  let  the  stricken  deer  go  weep, 

The  hart  ungalled  play  ; 
For  some  must  watch,  while  some  must  sleep ; 
Thus  runs  the  world  away." 

It  so  chanced  that  Mr.  Pennythorne,  working 
hard  all  that  day  at  a  review  of  a  book  which  he 
had  no  time  to  read,  and  in  the  evening  busily 
engaged  dispensing  his  bon-mots  and  amusing 


THE  OG1L    IES. 


fellow  ihat  came  yesterday,  you  know, 
if  I  wanted  a  tutor  for  Leigh — how  much 


sneers  in  Mrs.  Lancaster's  gay  drawing-room, 
never  thought  agaur,  of  Philip  Wychnor  until  his 
wife  asked  him  the  next  morning  what  he  would 
have  for  dinner.  Mr.  Pennythorne's  sway,  be  it 
known,  extended  even  to  the  comestibles  of  his 
household. 

"Dear  me— that  reminds  me  that  I  asked 
young  Wychnor  to  dine  here,  and  I  promised  to 
think  of  something  for  him.     Really,  how  tire- 
some are  these  fellows  iu  want  of  employment !" 
And  the  old  gentleman  cogitated  for  at  least  five 
minutes,  with  his  chin  on  his  hand.     At  last,  a 
brilliant  thought  struck  him. 
"Cillie,  my  dear." 
"Yes,  Pierce." 

''How  much  did  that  young  Johnson — the 

to  ask 
did  he 
charge  by  the  lesson  ?' 

"  Half-a-guinea  for  two  hours ;  only  he  wanted 
his  lunch  as  well,  and  you  said  that  would — " 

"  Tut — tut !  how  women's  tongues  do  run ! 
Mrs.  Pennythorne,  will  you  be  so  obliging  as  to 
go  down-stairs  ? — and  when  I  need  your  advice 
and  conversation  I  will  ring  the  bell."  And 
Mr.  Pennythorne  politely  opened  the  door  for 
his  wife,  shut  her  out,  and  returned  to  his  easy 
chair. 

"  That  will  just  do— a  capital  plan !"  said  he, 
rubbing  his  hands  with  an  air  of  benevolent  sat- 
isfaction. "  How  thankful  the  poor  fellow  will 
be  !  Of  course,  one  could  not  give  him  so  much 
as  a  professed  tutor.  Let  me  see — s&yfour  hours 
at  half-a-guinea,  and  that  twice  a  week  :  a  very 
good  thing  for  him — very  good  indeed.  He  ought 
to  be  quite  satisfied,  and  very  thankful.  It  will 
save  me  time  and  trouble,  too — for  that 
Leigh  is  getting  confoundedly  stupid;  so 
kill  two  birds  with  one  stone.  Really,  what 


young 
I  shall 


deal  of  good  one  can  do  in  the  world  if  one 
tries!" 

With  a  pleasing  conviction  of  his  own  gener- 
osity, Mr.  Pennythorne  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
and  summoned  his  wife,  to  give  orders  for  a  tur- 
bot  and  lamb  with  a  dish  of  game  to  follow. 

"  Young  Wychnor  is  coming  here  to-day,"  he 
added,  benevolently.  "I  dare  say  he  does  not 
get  such  a  dinner  every  day." 

He  certainly  did  not — but  Mr.  Pennythorne  did 
—very  often.  Therefore  he  was  obliged,  alas ! 
to  pay  his  son's  tutor  only  two  shillings  and  seven- 
pence  halfpenny  for  each  hour's  instruction  in 
Latin,  Greek,  and  Mathematics. 


self — and  so  did  Mrs.  Pennyihorne.  Moreover, 
the  latter  often  added  to  the  benevolence  by  giv- 
ing Philip  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  sandwich  when 
he  came  in,  hot  and  exhausted,  after  his  three- 
mile  walk.  These  were  not  "  nominated  in  the 
bond,"  and  Philip  took  them  gratefully.  The 
trifling  kindness  was  better  than  the  gold. 

He  had  at  first  little  pleasure  in  teaching  Leigh 
Pennjjthorne.  .  He  gave  his  instruction  carefully, 
patiently,  kindly ;  but  it  never  seemed  to  pene- 
trate beyond  the  outward  layer  of  the  boy's  dull, 
overworked  brain.  The  soil  had  been  plowed 
and  sown  over  and  over  again,  until  there  was  no 
vestige  of  fertility  left  in  it.  Philip  tried  to  in- 
terest his  young  pupil— to  make  a  friend  of  him 
— but  the  heart  seemed  as  dead  as  the  brain. 
Now  and  then  there  would  come  a  gleam  of 
speculation  into  the  heavy  eyes ;  but  it  was  only 
a  passing  one,  and  the  youth's  face  sank  a«-ain 
into  its  vacant  dreariness. 

I*  Leigh  has  got  plenty  of  brains — only  they  re 
quire  a  great  deal  of  hammering  to  knock  out 
the  laziness,"  said  the  father. 

"Leigh  has  grown  the   sulkiest  fellow  that 
'  :s.     By  Jove  ! 
father's  head 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Should  the  Body  sue  the  Mind  before  a  court  of  judi- 
cature for  damages,  it  would  be  found  that  the  Mind  would 
prove  to  have  been  a  ruinous  tenant  to  its  landlord. 

PLUTARCH. 

Can  I  love  thee,  my  beloved— can  I  love  thee? 

And  is  this  like  love,  to  stand 

With  no  help  in  my  hand, 

When  strong  as  death  I  fain  would  watch  above  thee  ? 
May  God  love  thee,  my  beloved,  may  God  love  thee  1 
E.  B.  BROWNING. 

THE  five-pound  note  found  its  way  into  Philip's 
pocket  after  all.  To  be  sure,  it  came  diluted  into 
guinea-drops  at  not  very  regular  intervals — but 
still  it  did  come,  and  Mr.  Pennythorne  had  done 
a  benevolent  action.  He  felt  sure  of  this  him- 


ever  lived,  over  those  stupid  books. 

I'm  glad  nobody  ever  put  it  into  famci  a 

that  I  was  clever,"  laughed  Mr.  Frederick. 

"Poor  Leigh!  I  wonder  why  he  will  make 
himself  ill  with  sitting  over  the  fire  and  never 
going  out,"  Mrs.  Pennythorne  would  sometimes 
lament:  but  she  never  dared  to  say  more — hardly 
to  think. 

So,  the  boy  grew  paler  anti  duller  every  day, 
but  still  he  must  work — work — for  the  time  was 
going  by,  and  Mr.  Pennythorne  was  determined 
to  have  a  man  of  learning  in  the  family.  His 
credit  was  at  stake,  for  he  had  vaunted  every 
where  his  son's  classic  acquirements,  and  the 
boast  should  be  made  good  in  spite  of  "  that  lazy 
Leigh."  Morning  and  night  the  father  attacked 
him.  "  Study — study !"  was  forever  dinned  into 
his  ears ;  so,  at  last,  the  boy  rarely  stirred  out 
of  his  own  little  den.  There  he  sat,  with  his 
books  heaped  up  around  him :  they  helped  to  build 
the  altar-pile  on  which  the  deluded  father  was 
offering  up  his  victim. 

Philip  Wychnor  saw  very  little  of  all  this,  or 
his  truthful  tongue  could  not  have  kept  silence, 
He  was  sorry  for  the  boy,  and  tried  to  make  the 
few  hours  during  which  he  himself  guided  his 
studies,  as  little  like  labor  as  possible ;  and  if 
ever  Leigh's  countenance  brightened  into  inter- 
est or  intelligence,  it  was  during  the  time  that 
he  was  alone  with  his  gentle  teacher.  That 
teacher  was,  himself,  fast  yielding  to  the  effects 
of  the  desolate  and  anxious  summer  through 
which  he  had  passed.  It  had  prostrated  all  hit 
bodily  energies,  and  his  mind  sank  with  them, 
He  felt  as  though  he  were  gradually  drawing 
nearer  and  nearer  into  the  shadow  of  some  terri- 
ble illness  which  he  could  not  avert.  Every  day 
he  rose  up  with  the  thought,  "Well,  I  wonder 
what  will  become  of  me  before  night!" — and 
every  night  when  he  lay  down  on  his  bed,  it 
was  under  a  vague  impression  that  he  might  not 
rise  from  it  again. 

At  last,  one  morning  when  he  left  the  Penny- 
thornes,  he  felt  so  ill  that  he  ventured  to  expend 
sixpence  in  a  ride  home — almost  his  last  coin, 
poor  fellow!  for  it  wanted  some  days  of  the 
month's  end,  and  Mr.  Pennythorne  was  never  be- 
forehand in  his  disbursements.  As  he  sat  in  the 


52 


THE  OGILVIES. 


corner  of  the  omnibus,  with  his  hat  drawn  over 
his  aching  eyes,  he  felt  conscious  of  nothing  save 
the  dull  rolling  of  the  vehicle  which  carried  him 
somewhere— he  hardly  knew  where.  There  was 
a  crying  child  near  him — and  a  lady  with  a  sharp- 
tone'd  voice,  who  drew  her  silk  robes  from  the 
babe's  greasy  fingers,  and  glared  angrily  at  its 
shabbily-clad  mother,  muttering  not  inaudibly, 
11  What  very  disagreeable  people  one  meets  in 
omnibuses  !"  About  King  William-street  there 
was  a  stoppage  in  the  street,  and  a  consequent 
pushing  of  passengers'  heads  out  of  the  window, 
with  a  general  murmur  about  a  woman  having 
been  run  over.  All  these  things  Philip's  eye  and 
ear  perceived  as  through  a  dense,  confused  mist : 
he  sat  in  his  corner  and  never  stirred. 

"What  unfeelingness !"  muttered  the  lady- 
passenger  with  the  silk  dress,  who  seemed  to  find 
her  own  self  such  very  dull  company  that  she 
spent  her  whole  time  in  watching  and  comment- 
ing on  other  people. 

"Totten'  Co't  Road!"  bawled  out  the  con- 
ductor ;  and  Philip  was  just  conscious  of  making 
a  movement  to  alight,  and  being  assisted  out  by 
a  little  old  man  who  sat  by  the  door. 

"  Money,  sir !"  the  omnibus  man  shouted  in- 
dignantly, as  Philip  turned  away.  He  took  out 
a  shilling  and  hastily  went  on. 

"  Gen'lemen  drunk  never  wants  no  change," 
said  the  conductor,  with  a  broad  grin  that  made 
all  the  passengers  laugh  except  the  odd-looking 
little  old  man.  As  he  stood  on  the  step,  in  the 
act  of  descending,  he  threw  back  on  the  conductor 
the  most  frowning  glance  of  which  his  mild,  good- 
natured  eyes  were  capable. 

Philip  walked  on  a  little  way  into  a  quiet  street, 
and  there  leaned  against  a  railing,  utterly  unable 
to  stand.  A  touch  at  his  elbow  startled  him :  it 
was  the  queer  old  man  in  the  omnibus. 

"Afraid  you're  ill,  sir,"  said  the  most  depre- 
cating and  yet  kindly  voice  in  the  world. 

"  No — yes — perhaps  so — the  day  is  so  hot," 
murmured  Philip,  and  then  he  fainted  in  the 
street. 

Luckily,  he  had  with  him  a  card.  Oppressed 
with  the  presentiment  of  sudden  illness,  he  al- 
ways took  this  precaution.  The  little  old  man 
called  a  cab  and  took  him  home.  That  night 
Philip  Wychnor  lay  smitten  with  fever  on  his 

poor  pallet-bed  in  the  close  back  attic  of 

street. 

At  the  same  hour  Eleanor  was  passing  up 
and  down  under  the  lime-tree  shadow  of  the 
palace-garden — thinking  of  her  betrothed.  She 
pictured  him  in  busy  London,  at  work  bravely, 
steadily,  hopefully.  Perchance  she  almost  en- 
vied his  lot  of  active  employment,  while  she  her- 
self had  to  bear  many  home  trials^to  walk  in 
the  old  paths  and  see  Philip's  face  there  no 
more — to  have  one  constant  thought  of  Philip 
in  her  heart,  and  yet  fear  to  utter  his  name. 
Dear,  faithful  Eleanor,  could  she  have  seen  him 
now ! 

Oh,  why  is  love  so  powerless — so  vain? — in- 
finite in  will,  yet  how  bounded  in  power  !  We 
would  fain  spread  world-extended  wings  of 
shelter  and  comfort  over  our  beloved ;  and  yet 
in  our  helpless  earth-nature  we  may  let  them 
sink,  suffer,  die,  alone !  Strange  and  sad  it  is, 
that  we,  who  would  brave  alike  life's  toil  and 
death's  agony— ay,  lay  down  body  and  soul  at 
the  feet  of  <nr  dearest"  ones — can  not  bring  ease 


to  the  lightest  pain  which  their  humanity  may 
endure. 

Yet,  there  is  a  wondrous  might  in  loving — a 
might  almost  divine.  May  it  not  be,  that  there 
are  those  around  us  whose  whole  spiritual 
being,  transfused  with  love,  delights  to  aid  where 
our  human  affection  fails,  unable  to  fulfill  its 
longings — who  stand  in  our  stead,  and  give  to 
our  vain  blessings,  our  almost  weeping  prayers, 
our  wild  lonely  outpouring  of  fondest  words,  a 
strength  so  omnipotent  that  our  beloved  may 
feel  in  their  souls  the  mysterious  influence — and 
draw  thence  comfort  and  joy  ? 

And  if  so,  when,  as  poor  sick  Philip  watched 
the  creeping  sunshine  along  the  dusky  wall — 
the  blessed,  thoughtful  sunshine  which  in  Lon- 
don always  visits  most  the  poverty-stricken  attic 
— or  when,  during  his  long,  restless  nights,  the 
pure  moonlight  came  in  like  a  flood,  and  in  his 
half-delirous  mood  he  thought  it  was  the  waving 
of  an  angel's  wing — who  knows  but  that  the 
faithful  love  which  rose  up  to  heaven  in  an  un- 
ceasing prayer  for  him,  may  have  fallen  down 
again  on  his  spirit  in  a  holy  dew  of  blessing  and 
of  peace  ? 

Rejoice,  0  thou  who  lovest !  if  thine  be  that 
pure  love  which  dares  stand  in  the  sight  of  God 
with  its  shining  face  unvailed — so  holy  that  thou 
tremblest  not  to  breathe  it  in  thy  prayers — so 
free  from  earth's  taint  that  it  can  look  on  the 
divider,  Death,  without  fear  or  sorrow,  feeling 
that  then  its  highest  life  begins  !  Be  strong 
and  faint  not;  be  faithful  and  doubt  not,  what- 
ever clouds  and  thick  darkness  of  human  fate 
may  stand  between  thee  and  thy  heart's  desire. 
How  knowest  thou  but  that  the  sunburst  of  thy 
strong  love  may  pierce  through  all,  and  rest  on 
thy  beloved — a  glory  and  a  blessing — though 
whence  it  cometh,  or  how.  may  never  be  re- 
vealed? 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

He  bad  grown  dusty  with  groping  all  his  life  in  the 
graves  of  dead  languages.  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Much  more  is  said  of  knowledge  than  'tis  worth  ; 
A  man  may  gain  all  knowledge  here,  and  yet 
Be  after  death  as  much  i'  the  dark  as  I. 

PHILIP  BAILEY. 

PHILIP  was  ill  many  days — how  many  he  never 
counted,  and  there  was  no  tender  nurse  to  count 
them  for  him.  He  struggled  through  his  illness 
like  numberless  others  to  whom  sickness  and 
poverty  come  together.  One  wonders  how  such 
poor,  desolate  sufferers  survive.  And  yet  death 
often  passes  the  penury-stricken,  misery-haunted 
chamber,  to  stand  at  the  foot  of  the  well-tended 
ipouch,  around  which  gathers  an  army  of  doctors 
and  nurses.  Amidst  all,  in  spite  of  all,  sounds 
in  the  rich  man's  ear  the  low,  awful  whisper, 
"Thou  must  come  away." 

Life  is  to  the  young  an  ever-renewed  fountain 
of  hope;  and  Philip  Wychnor,  when  he  arose 
from  his  sickness,  was  by  no  means  so  disconso- 
late as  might  have  been  expected.  Under  the 
hardest  circumstances  there  is  always  a  vague 
happiness  in  the  first  dawn  of  returning  heakh. 
As  the  poor  invalid  managed  to  walk  to  the 
window,  and  sit  watching  as  much  of  a  glorious 
autumn  sunset  as  that  fortunate  elevation  per- 
mitted, there  was  a  patient  content  on  his  pale 


THE  OGLLViEo. 


53 


face  which  made  the  cross-grained  old  landlady 
say,  quite  tenderly,  when  she  brought  him  his 
tea  and  toast — 

"  Dear  heart  alive ! — how  nice  and  well  you 
are  looking  to-day,  sir!" 

In  truth,  there  was  a  sweetness  and  beauty  in 
Philip's  face  that  would  have  softened  any  heart 
wherein  lingered  one  drop  of  kindly  womanhood : 
and,  thank  Heaven !  there  are  few  utterly  with- 
out. 

The  young  man  finished  his  poor  repast  almost 
with  an  appetite;  and  then  leaned  back  in  the 
twilight,  too  weak  for  consecutive  thought,  but 
still  giving  way  to  a  quiet,  pleasant  dreaminess. 
He  was  conscious  only  of  a  vague  longing  to 
have  the  dear,  soft  eyes  that  he  knew,  looking 
peace  upon  him — to  rest  like  a  weary  child  his 
head  on  a  distant  bosom,  his  hand  in  hers,  with- 
out speaking  or  moving.  And  as  he  lay  still, 
with  closed  eyes,  the  strong  fantasy  seemed  to 
grow  into  a  reality. 

To  Eleanor,  who  knew  nothing  of  all  this  ill- 
ness, and  to  whom  her  lover's  silence  brought 
pain,  apprehension — every  thing  but  distrust — 
how  comforting  would  such  a  reality  have  been ! 

As  Philip  reclined  in  this  dreamy  state,  the 
door  opened  softly,  and  through  it  appeared,  to 
his  great  astonishment,  the  long,  thin  face  of 
Leigh  Pennythorne.  The  boy  looked  round  the 
room,  and  started  back  when  he  saw  Philip,  who 
turned  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  How  good  of  you  to  come  and  see  me !"  he 
•aid,  feebly. 

Leigh  sprang  forward,  wrung  the  poor,  wan 
hand  two  or  three  times,  and  tried  to  speak,  but 
in  vain.  At  last  he  took  out  his  old  cotton 
pocket-handkerchief  and  began  to  cry  like  a 
child. 

Philip,  quite  amazed  at  this  display  of  feeling, 
could  only  lay  his  hand  on  the  boy  s  shoulder, 
and  then  leaned  back,  too  exhausted  for  speech. 
Leigh  began  to  be  alarmed. 

"  I  hope  I  shan't  do  you  any  harm  5  I  don't 
mean  to,"  he  said,  between  his  sobs.  "I  am 
downright  ashamed  of  myself,  that  I  am — a  great 
boy  like  me — but  I  did  not  expect  you  were  out 
of  bed ;  and  I  was  so  glad  to  see  you  better,  Mr. 
Wychnor." 

"Thank  you — thank  you,  Leigh,"  was  the 
faint  answer. 

"  There  now,  don't  talk ;  I  shan't.  I've  got 
all  my  books  here :" — and  he  hauled  after  him  a 
great  blue  bag.  "  Just  go  to  sleep  again,  and 
call  me  when  you  want  any  thing,  will  you?" 
said  the  boy,  insensibly  relapsing  into  his  own 
languid  drawl.  '  He  seated  himself  on  the  other 
side  the  window,  and  leaned  his  gaunt  elbows  on 
the  sill,  with  the  eternal  book  between  them. 
But  how  far  this  was  a  kindly  pretense,  the 
quick  glances  which  the  brown  eyes  were  ever 
stealing  at  Philip  easily  revealed. 

"Leigh !"  said  the  invalid,  after  a  pause. 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  old  schoolboy  voice 
— so  different  from  the  impassioned  tone  of  a 
few  minutes  before. 

"  Don't  call  me  sir — you  can  not  think  how 
plad  I  am  to  see  you,  my  dear  boy!"  And 
Philip  clasped  the  cold,  spiJer-like  hand  affec- 
tionately, for  his  heart  yas  touched. 

"  Glad— are  you,  Mr.  Wychnor  ?  Well,  you're 
the  first  wh->  ever  was  giad  to  see  me — or  who 
told  me  so."  There  was  a  tone  half  bitter  half 


despondent  piercing  through  the  boy's  apathy— 
but  Philip  took  no  notice  of  it. 

"How  did  you  know  I  was  ill?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  could  easily  see  that  the  last  day  you 
came.  I  watched  you  down  our  square,  and' 
into  the  omnibus — I  hope  you'll  not  be  offended 
at  that,  Mr.  Wychnor?" — and  the  sallow  cheek 
of  the  shy  boy  reddened  visibly. 

Philip  pressed  his  hand — and  Leigh  brightened 
up  more  and  more. 

"I  said  to.  myself  that  you  must  be  ill,  as  you 
never  rode  home  before ;  so  the  next  day,  when 
the  governor  dined  out,  I  came  over  here  to  see.". 

"  How  kind ! — you  who  never  care  to  stir  from 
home." 


am 

been  here  very  often  since  then ;  only  you  were 

light-headed,  and  did  not  know  me." 

"  But  they  told  me  I  had  a  fever.  Oh,  Leigh, 
if  you  should  take  it!"  said  Philip,  hurriedly. 

"  Don't  mind  that ;  I  heard  the  doctor  say  it 
wasn't  catching — and  if  it  were,  I  should  not  be 
afraid.  It  would  be  rather  pleasant  to  have  a 
fever,  and  then  I  should  not  work.  But  there's 
no  danger :  so  don't  make  yourself  uncomfort- 
able." 

"But  your  father?" 

"  Oh,  he  knows  nothing  about  it,  I  managed 
all  so  cleverly.  Guess  how  f  I  wrote  a  letter 
in  your  name,  saying  you  had  fallen  down  and 
sprained  your  foot,  so  that  you  would  be  glad  if 
father  would  let  me  take  the  lessons  here,  and 
you'd  give  an  extra  one  each  week.  I  knew 
that  would  catch  the  old  governor !" — and  an 
expression  in  which  the  glee  of  childhood  and 
the  sarcasm  of  manhood  were  conjoined  passed 
over  the  boy's  face.  "The  writing  looked'just 
like  yours,  and  I  put  it  in  the  post-office  at 
Southampton  Row.  He  never  found  out  the 
cheat.  How  should  he  ?  So  I  used  to  come 
over  regularly  with  my  books — and  then  I  took 
care  of  you." 

Philip  was  struck  dumb  by  the  strange  mixture 
of  affection  and  duplicity,  generosity  and  utter 
neglect  of  truth  or  duty,  which  the  boy's  conduct 
exhibited.  But  the  good  was  Leigh's  own  nature 
—the  evil,  the  result  of  his  education.  Philip, 
weak  and  ill  as  he  was,  had  no  power  to  argue 
the  right  and  wrong  of  the  case.  He  only  felt 
the  influence  of  this  sudden  upspringing  of 
affection  toward  himself;  it  came  to  him  like 
waters  in  a  dry  land — he  could  not  thrust  it  from 
him,  though  much  that  was  evil  mingled  in  thf 
fountain's  source. 

Liegh  went  on  talking  as  fast  as  though  he 
had  a  twelvemonth's  arrears  of  silence  to  make 
up  at  once.  "I  told  the  landlady  I  was  your 
cousin — she  and  I  got  very  good  friends — I  used 
to  pay  her  every  week." 

"Pay  her?"  echoed  Philip,  as  a  thought  of 
his  empty  purse  flashed  across  his  mind. 

"Oh,  yes— of  course,  father  sent  the  money 
for  the  lessons  just  as  usual — it  did  very  nicely — 
or  I  really  don't  know  how  I  could  have  got  you 
what  you  wanted  during  your  illness.  But  1 
shall  talk  too  much  for  you.  Hadn't  you  better 
lie  down  again?" 

The  advice  did  not  come  too  soon,  for  Philip, 
bewildered  and  exhausted,  had  sunk  back  in  hi* 
chair. 


THE  OGILV.ES. 


In  a  moment  the  dull,  stupid  Leigh  Penny- 
«horne  became  changed  into  the  most  active  and 
skillful  of  nurses— gentle  and  thoughtful  as  a 
woman.  His  apathetic  manner,  his  lazy  drawl, 
seemed  to  vanish  at  once.  He  tended  Philip, 
and  even  wept  over  him  with  a  remorseful  affec- 
tion that  was  touching  to  witness. 

0  ye  hard  parents,  who  look  upon  your  off- 
spring  as  your  mere  property,  to  be  brought  up 
for  your  pleasure  or  pride — never  remembering 
that  each  child  may  have  lived,  and  assuredly 
will  live,  through  eternity,  an  independent,  self- 
existing  being — that  the  Bestower  of  these 
young  spirits  gives  them  not,  but  lends — "  Take 
this  child  and  mii'se  it  for  Me" — think  what  a 
fearful  thing  it  is  to  have  upon  your  heads  the 
destruction  of  a  human  soul ! 

Philip,  left  to  himself,  thought  much  and 
anxiously  of  the  best  course  to  pursue  :  and  by 
the  best  Philip  Wychnor  always  meant  the  right : 
— he  never  turned  aside  to  expediencies.  Once, 
his  upright,  truthful  mind  prompted  him  to 
write  the  whole  story  to  Mr.  Penny thorne  ;  but 
then  he  soon  saw  how  terrible  would  be  the 
result  to  Leigh.  He  would  not  give  up  the  poor, 
boy  whose  fragile  life  seemed  to  owe  its  sole 
brightness  to  his  own  affection. 

So  as  the  young  teacher  himself  gathered 
strength  he  set  about  the  cure  of  this  poor 
diseased  mind ;  trying  to  bend  it  straight,  as  he 
would  a  tree  which  wrong  culture  had  warped 
aside,  not  with  a  sudden  wrench,  but  by  a  grad- 
ual influence ; — so  that,  ere  long,  he  made  Leigh 
see  and  acknowledge  his  errors.  And  all  this  he 
did  so  gently,  that  while  the  boy's  spirit  opened 
to  the  light,  he  loved  more  than  ever  the  hand 
which  brought  it.  even  though  the  brightness  of 
truth  revealed  in  his  heart  much  evil  that  op- 
pressed him  with  shame. 

"And  now,"  said  Philip,  one  day,  as  Leigh 
sat  beside  him  listening  to  his  gentle  arguments, 
"What  are  we  to  do  to  amend  all  this  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  Do  you  decide,"  answered 
Leigh  humbly. 

"  Go  and  tell  your  father,  what  is  indeed  the 
truth,  that  I  have  been  too  ill  to  give  you  your 
lessons;  but  that  you  had  not  courage  to  say 
this,  and  continued  coming  here  still.  Surely  he 
can  not  be  angry,  since  this  was  from  kindness 
to  me." 

Leigh  shook  his  head.  "  I'll  do  it,  however, 
if  you  say  so.  You  must  be  right,  Mr.  Wychnor, 
and  I  don't  care  what  happens  to  myself." 

"And  tell  your  father,  too,  from  me,"  contin- 
ued Philip,  "that  I  will  make  up  all  the  missed 
lessons  as  soon  as  ever  I  recover.  I  could  not 
rest  with  this  load  on  my  mind." 

There  was  a  look  of  surprise  and  tenderness 
in  the  large,  wistful  eyes  which  now  seemed  ever 
reading  Philip's  face. 

"  You  must  be  a  very  good  man,  Mr.  Wych- 
nor." said  Leigh,  simply.  "  You  do  and  say  the 
sort  of  things  that  I  used  to  read  of  long  ago  when 
1  had  books  I  liked — I  don't  mean  these  !"  and  he 
kicked  the  blue  bag  disdainfully.  "  I  fancied  I 
should  meet  in  real  life  the  same  sort  of  good- 
ness, but  I  never  did  ;  and  so,  at  last,  I  thought 
it  was  only  found  in  poetry  and  novels.  I  don't 
now,  though." 

Philip  made  no  answer  to  this  simple  child- 
like confession,  but  it  went  to  his  heart.  He 
vowed  within  himself  that  while  the  boy  lived 


he  would  not  part  fron  him,  but  would  strive 
through  all  difficulties  tt  guide  this  frail,  strug- 
gling spirit  to  the  light. 

Mr.  Pennythorne  was  rati.er  indignant  af 
having  been  deceived,  but  his  parental  dignity 
grew  mollified  by  the  humble  behavior  of  his 
son. 

"  Leigh  is  not  half  so  sulky  as  he  used  to  be? 
and  he  gets  on  very  well  with  young  Wychnor, n 
he  observed  to  Mrs.  Pennythorne.  "It  is  not 
worth  while  breaking  up  the  lessens,  when  the 
lad  came  himself  and  told  of  his  own  error. 
However,  he  must  apologize  properly,  for  I  can 
not  have  my  authority  set  at  naught." 

The  mother  deferentially  suggested  that  it  did 
poor  Leigh,  so  much  good  to  go  out  every  day ; 
and  so  the  end  of  the  matter  was,  that  Mr. 
Pennythorne  graciously  acceded  to  the  lessons 
being  given  at  Philip's  home — the  extra  one 
being  still  continued. 

"  And  about  the  money  already  received  ?" 
said  Philip,  anxiously,  when  his  young  pupil 
brought  the  message.  "  Will  your  father  wait 
until  I  can  return  it?" 

Leigh  blushed  crimson,  and  turned  to  the 
window. 

"  Oh,  he  is  quite  satisfied  on  that  account ; 
you  are  not  to  think  about  it  any  more." 

"  How  kind  !"  And  in  Philip's  first  uneasi- 
ness and  quick-springing  gratitude  he  never 
noticed  Leigh's  confusion. 

The  bo-  had  sold  his  watch — his  pet  play- 
thing and  companion — to  pay  his  father  the 
money. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

Marriage  is  a  desperate  thing.  The  frogs  in  ^Esop  were 
extremely  wise :  they  had  a  great  mind  to  some  water, 
but  they  would  not  leap  into  a  well  because  they  could 
not  get  out  again.  SELDEN. 

A  coxcomb  is  ugly  all  over  with  the  affectation  of  a  fine 
gentleman.  STEKLI. 

IN  the  bay-window  of  a  somewhat  tawdry 
London  drawing-room  stood  a  lady  alone.  She 
was  looking  toward  the  street  more  through 
idleness  than  curiosity,  for  she  kept  restlessly 
beating  time  with  her  riding-whip  on  her  gloved 
hand.  You  could  not  see  her  face,  except  the 
outline  of  the  cheek  and  graceful  little  ear — but 
these  wore  all  the  beautiful  roundness  of  early 
youth ;  and  her  tall  figure,  which  the  dark 
riding-habit  so  well  displayed,  had  an  almost 
statue-like  perfection  in  its  curves. 

By  degrees  the  impatient  little  hand  grew 
still,  the  fair  head  drooped,  and  with  her  brow 
leaning  against  the  window-pane  the  girl  stood 
for  some  minutes  in  thought.  The  fact  itself 
showed  how  young  she  was.  After  twenty, 
one's  ponderings  usually  grow  too  deep  and 
earnest  to  be  expended  in  light  and  sudden  rev- 
eries. 

A  voice  outside  and  an  opened  door  broke  in 
upon  these  musings,  and  caused  the  young  girl 
to  turn  round.  It  was  Katharine  Ogilvie. 

"Dear  me,  Katharine,  how  you  are  altered !" 
exclaimed  the  lady  who  entered  the  room — also 
an  old  acquaintance  of  ours,  whom  we  have  left 
so  long  to  pursue  the  sole  aim  of  her  life,  mat- 
rimony, that  we  feel  almost  ashamed  to  re-in« 
troduce  her  as  still  Miss  Isabella  Worsley. 


THE  OGILVIES. 


*  1  never  saw  such  a  change  !"  continued  she, 
m  genuine  astonishment,  which  really  was  not 
at  all  surprising.  Eleanor  had  proved  right  in 
her  conjecture  ;  one  could  hardly  see  any  where 
a  more  graceful  and  beautiful  young  creature 
than  Katharine  Ogilvie  at  nineteen.  "Why, 
what  has  made  such  a  difference  in  you?"  con- 
tinued Isabella,  "  eying  her  over"  from  head  to 
foot. 

Katharine  smiled,  and  a  faint  color  rose  into 
her  cheek  :  a  lovely  cheek  it  was  too — no  longer 
sallow,  but  of  a  clear  pale  brown,  under  which 
the  rich  blood  wandered,  at  times  suffusing  it 
with  a  peach-like  glow.  "  You  know  it  is  nearly 
three  years  since  you  saw  me,  Isabella:" — and 
as  she  spoke  a  deeper  and  more  womanly  thrill 
might  have  been  traced  in  her  silvery  voice. 

"  Three  years !  nay,  I  am  sure  it  is  not  nearly 
so  much,"  said  Isabella,  with  some  little  acer- 
bity. She  began  to  find  it  rather  irksome  to 
count  years. 

"  Indeed  it  is,  all  but  two  months.  It  will  be 
three  years  next  February — I  mean  January;" 
and  Katharine's  color  grew  a  shade  deeper  as 
she  continued  more  quickly,  "Yes,  it  was  in 
January  that  you  came,  Isabella — you  and  Liz- 
zie, and  George — and  we  had,  besides,  Eleanor 
and  Hugh.  What  a  merry  time  it  was  !" 

"  You  seem  to  remember  it  exceedingly  well," 
said  Isabella,  pointedly,  and  not  altogether  with- 
out ill-nature. 

"  Certainly  I  do,"  answered  Katharine's  se- 
reno  voice  ;  and  the  beautiful  head  was  lifted  a 
little,  with  an  air  of  dignity  not  unmixed  with 
pride.  If  showed  Isabella  at  once  that  where 
she  had  left  the  child  she  had  found  the  woman. 
She  turned  the  conversation  immediately. 

"  We  have  been  looking  for  you  all  the  morn- 
ing, Katharine.  It  is  so  horridly  dull  to  be  up 
in  town  when  every  body  else  is  out  of  it ;  living 
in  lodgings  too,  with  nobody  but  mamma.  I 
wish  this  disagreeable  law-business  were  over. 
But  come,  my  dear  girl,  take  off  your  hat  and 
let  us  talk.  How  long  have  you  to  stay  with 
me  this  morning  ?" 

"  My  father  will  come  for  me  in  an  hour  or 
two,  if  he  can  get  away  from  the  house  Other- 
wise, he  will  be  sure  to  send  Hugh." 

"  Hugh !  Oh,  really  I  shall  be  quite  delighted 
to  see  cousin  Hugh!  Is  he  altered?"  and  the 
sharp  eyes  fixed  themselves  observantly  on  Kath- 
arine's face. 

"  Oh,  no !  Hugh  is  just  the  same  as  ever," 
answered  the  young  girl,  with  a  merry  laugh,  as 
she  stood  braiding  back  the  thick  black  hair 
which  had  fallen  in  taking  off  her  hat.  The 
attitude  was  so  unconstrained — so  perfectly 
graceful — that  Isabella's  envious  heart  acknowl- 
edged perforce  the  exceeding  beauty  of  her 
oousin. 

"  And  Hugh  stays  at  Summerwood  as  much 
«s  he  used  to  do  ?"  she  pursued,  keeping  up  the 
same  scrutiny. 

"  Oh  yes  !  I  don't  know  what  papa  would  do 
without  him,  now  he  is  himself  in  Parliament. 
Hugh  manages  every  thing  at  the  Park ;  takes 
care  of  the  farming  and  the  shooting — of  mam- 
ma, of  Brown  Bess,  and  of  myself." 

"So  I  suppose,"  muttered  Isabella. 

"  Besides,  he  can  hardly  feel  settled  any  where 
eke,  now  that  Eleanor  lives  with  Mrs.  Breyn- 
ton." 


"Ah!  teL  me  all  about  that,"  cried  Miss 
Worsley,  in  her  eagerness  for  gossip.  ''How 
odd  it  was  of  Eleanor  to  go  and  live  entirely 
with  a  stupid  old  woman !  But  perhaps  she  had 
plenty  of  money  to  leave  ?" 

Katharine's  proud  lip  curled.  "Eleanor  is 
not  a  legacy-hunter,  I  imagine,"  she  answered, 
coldly. 

"  I  really  did  not  intend  to  vex  you,  my  dear," 
said  Miss  Worsley.  "  Of  course,  Hugh's  sister 
is  all  perfection." 

"What  did  you  say,  Isabella?"  asked  the 
quiet  and  rather  haughty  voice. 

"  Oh,  nothing,  nothing ;  only  that  Eleanor 
and  I  never  took  to  one  another  much,  though 
we  are  cousins,  and  so  we  never  correspond: 
therefore,  all  I  know  of  her  proceedings  is  from 
hearsay.  Pray,  enlighten  me,  Katharine ;  I  do 
love  a  nice  little  bit  of  mystery." 

"  There  is  really  no  mystery  about  the  matter," 
answered  Katharine,  smiling.  I  have  not  seen 
my  cousin  much  of  late — and  her  letters  are 
rather  short  than  otherwise,  and  contain  very 
little  about  herself.  I  know  no  more  than  every 
one  else  does — that,  being  an  orphan  and  sister- 
less,  she  likes  to  live  with  an  old  lady  who  was 
her  mother's  friend  and  is  very  fond  of  herself. 
There  is  nothing  very  mysterious  in  this — is 
there?" 

"Oh,  no!  only  I  was  rather  curious  about 
the  matter^— for  Eleanor's  sake,  of  course,"  said 
the  young  lady.  We  call  her  so  par  excellence 
— as  Isabella  was  essentially  one  of  those  care- 
fully manufactured  articles  which  the  boarding- 
school  creates  and  "  society"  finishes.  There  is 
a  German  fairy  fable  of  the  Elle-women,  who 
are  all  fair  in  front,  but  if  you  walk  round  them 
hollow  as  a  piece  of  stamped  leather.  Perhaps 
this  is  a  myth  of  young-ladyhood. 

Our  young  lady,  then,  finding  it  impossible  to 
pump  from  Katharine  any  thing  that  adminis- 
tered to  her  vanity  or  her  love  of  gossip,  began 
to  feel  the  conversation  growing  rather  tiresome ; 
so  she  took  out  a  piece  of  fancy-work,  and  having 
tried  to  engage  her  visitor's  admiration  of  it,  eet 
her  to  wind  some  Berlin  wool :  doubtless  think- 
ing within  herself  how  stupid  it  was  to  talk  to 
girls,  and  wishing  for  the  arrival  of  any  two- 
legged  animal  in  coat  and  hat  to  relieve  the 
tedium  of  this  morning  call. 

And — as  if  at  that  auspicious  moment  For- 
tunatus's  wishing-cap  had  adorned  her  head, 
instead  of  the  pretty  little  nondescript  fabric  of 
wool  which  she  wore,  partly  for  warmth,  partly 
because  any  sort  of  matronly  coif  sets  off  a  passe 
face  advantageously — lo !  there  was  a  terrific 
thundering  at  the  hall-door,  and  the  servant  ap- 
peared with  a  card. 

"  Mr.  Frederick  Pennythorne,"  read  Isabella. 
"  Show  him  up  immediately."  And  with  an  air 
of  satisfaction  she  glanced  at  the  mirror,  and 
went  through  one  or  two  small  ceremonies  of 
dress-arranging  with  which  fair  damsels  of  her 
stamp  always  honor  the  approach  of  an  individual 
in  broadcloth. 

"A  matter  of  business,  I  conclude?"  ob- 
served Katharine,  "as  you  said  you  had  no 
friends  in  town  now.  Shall  I  be  in  the  way?" 

"  Oh,  no ;  not  in  the  least.  The  fact  is,  that 
Mr.  Pennythorne  is  the  solicitor  in  our  suit — 
quite  a  rising  young  man;  not  disagreeable 
either.  He  calls  often — rather  oftener  than  is 


THE  OGILVIES. 


quite  necessary  for  the  law-business"  (here 
Isabella  cast  her  eyes  down  with  an  affected 
smile,  and  tittered  exceedingly),  "  so.  Katharine, 
it  is  perhaps  as  well  for  you  to  be  here,  as  mamma 
is  so  very  particular.  But  I  suppose  you  have 
not  got  to  these  things  yet,  my  dear ;  and,  in- 
deed—" 

Open  sesame  ! — videlicet  the  drawing-room 
door — and  then  enter  Mr.  Frederick  Penny- 
thorne ! 

Then  came  due  greeting  and  introduction,  and 
the  small  rattle  of  conversation  began.  It  was 
just  such  as  might  have  been  expected  from  the 
two  principal  interlocutors,  for  Katharine  took 
little  part  in  it.  With  instinctive,  but  in  this 
case  quite  superfluous  delicacy,  she  soon  retired 
to  the  window ;  and  if  once  or  twice  her  eyes 
wandered  toward  Isabella  and  the  new  visitor, 
her  gaze  was  induced  by  a  far  deeper  feeling 
than  idle  curiosity.  To  her,  all  lovers  and  all 
love  were  sacred ;  and  she  felt  for  the  first  time 
a  sympathy  with  her  cousin.  The  young,  un- 
suspicious heart  saw  in  all  others  but  the  like- 
ness of  its  own  :  the  true  could  not  even  divine 
the  false. 

Yet  a  little,  a  very  little,  did  Katharine  mar- 
vel, when  the  light  laugh  and  unconcerned 
chatter  of  her  cousin  struck  her  ear.  Love 
seemed  to  her  such  a  deep,  earnest  thing — and 
there  was  Isabella  all  carelessness  and  merri- 
ment, even  in  the  presence  of  her  lovtr.  Lover ! 
As  Katharine  glanced  at  the  easy,  self-com- 
placent rattler  of  small  compliments,  a  feeling 
came  over  her  very  like  self-scorn  for  having  so 
applied  the  word.  And,  turning  away  from  the 
mean  prettiness  of  the  well-arranged,  smirking 
visage,  with  its  small  lappets  of  whisker  meet- 
ing under  the  chin,  and  its  unmistakable  air  of 
"Don't  you  see  what  a  good-looking  fellow  I 
am?" — there  rose  up  before  her  the  shadowy 
likeness  of  a  calm,  thoughtful  face,  with  broad, 
noble  brow  and  deep  eyes.  Then  Katharine, 
smiling  to  herself  a  proud,  joyous  smile,  did  not 
even  think  again  of  Mr.  Frederick  Penny- 
thorne. 

That  gentleman,  on  his  part,  was  inclined  to 
return  the  somewhat  negative  compliment. 
People  like  himself  feel  an  extreme  aversion  to 
being  looked  down  upon,  either  corporeally  or 
mentally.  Katharine  Ogilvie,  unfortunately,  did 
both;  and  the  manner  in  which  she  received 
his  first  compliment  effectually  prevented  his 
hazarding  a  second.  He  found  his  small  mind 
quite  out  of  its  depths,  and  floundered  back  as 
quickly  as  possible  to  the  protecting  shallows 
of  Miss  Worsley's  easy  talk.  When  Katharine 
was  startled  out  of  her  pleasant  silence  by  the 
announcement  of  the  visitor's  departure,  all 
that  passed  between  them  was  a  valedictory 
bow,  which  Miss  Ogilvie  tried  to  make^as  cour- 
teous as  possible  to  the  imagined  lover  of  her 
cousin. 

"Dear  me!  how  tiresome  these  men  are! 
What  trouble  I  have  with  them,  to  bo  sure !" 
exclaimed  Miss  Wbrhley,  throwing  herself  lan- 
guidly into  an  arm-chair,  while  a  gratified  sim- 
per rather  contradicted  her  assertions. 

Katharine  looked  a  good  deal  surprised. 
"  Why,  Bella,  I  thought  you  were  quite  glad  to 
•ee  this  gentleman;  that  he  was  a  particular 
friend  of  yours — in  short,  a — " 

"  Beau,  you  mean,"  interrupted  Isabella,  with 


a   laugh,    "or   admirer,    or   sweetheart,    as   the 
maid-servants  say." 

"And  Shakspeare — who  makes  the  word  so 
pretty,  as  indeed  it  is — sweet  heart"  said  Kath 
arine;  who  scarcely  knew  whether  or  not  to 
echo  her  cousin's  laugh,  and  in  truth  could 
hardly  tell  what  to  make  of  her.  At  last  she 
inquired  earnestly — 

"My  dear  Bella,  do  you  and  this  young  man 
really  love  one  another?" 

Isabella  laughed  more  heartily  than  ever. 

"Well,  that  is  good !  'Love  one  another!' — 
it  sounds  just  like  a  text  out  of  the  Bible.  You 
little  simplicity !  nobody  ever  talks  in  that  way 
nowadays,  except  in  novels.  Where  did  you 
learn  your  pretty  lesson,  my  dear,  and  who 
taught  you?" 

Again  the  proud  cheek's  sudden  crimson 
warned  Miss  Worsley  that  the  childish  days 
wherein  she  used  to  make  sport  of  her  young 
cousin  were  over.  She  changed  her  tactics 
immediately,  seriously  adding— 

"  Well,  well,  I  know  what  you  mean,  Kath 
arine ;  the  mere  form  of  words  does  not  much 
signify.  Whether  I  like  Fred  Pennythorne  or 
not,  'tis  quite  clear  he  likes  me — as  indeed  he 
managed  to  tell  me  about  ten  minutes  ago." 

"And  you  will  marry  him— that  is,  if  you 
never  loved  any  one  else?"  said  Katharine, 
simply. 

"  My  dear  girl,  how  unsophisticated  you  are  ! 
What  difference  could  that  last  fact  make  in  my 
becoming  Mrs.  Pennythorne?  Why,  I  have 
had  affairs  of  this  sort,  off  and  on,  ever  since  I 
was  sixteen.  It  is  very  hard ;  but  if  men  will 
fall  in  love,  what  can  one  do  ?  However,  you 
will  be  finding  out  these  things  for  yourself  one 
day,  if  what  I  hear  people  say  about  you  be 
true." 

"  What  do  people  say  about  me  ?  And  there 
was  a  trembling  at  the  girl's  heart,  as  the 
thought  passed  through  it,  that — but  no,  it  was 
impossible !  She  smiled  calmly.  "  Pray  tell  me 
this  interesting  rumor,  Isabella." 

"  Only  that  when  Miss  Katharine  Ogilvie 
marries,  she  will  not  need  to  change  her  sur- 
name— and  that"  our  excellent  cousin  Hugh  bids 
fair  to  inherit  title,  estates,  heiress,  and  all.  So 
thinks  the  world." 

Katharine  drew  herself  up  with  lofty  dignity. 
"  I  do  not  see  that  the  world  has  any  business  to 
think  about  the  matter ;  but  whether  it  does  or 
not,  can  be  of  little  consequence  to  me,  or  to 
Hugh  either.  We  are  too  good  friends  to  mind 
an  idle  report." 

"  Yes,  yes,  it  is  all  quite  proper  for  you  to  talk 
so  now,  my  dear — but  we  shall  see.  I  guessed 
how  it  would  end,  long  ago ;  and  so,  I  dare  say, 
did  some  older  heads  than  either  yours  or  mine. 
Of  course,  your  father  and  mother  both  know 
what  a  good  match  it  would  be  for  you." 

"A  good  match!"  repeated  Katharine,  while 
her  beautiful  lip  curled,  and  her  whole  mien  ex- 
pressed ineffable  scorn.  "  Is  that  all  that  people 
marry  for?" 

"Isabella,  at  this  moment,  jumped  up  from 
her  seat  by  the  window.  "  Talk  of  the — I  beg 
your  pardon,  and  that  of  Mr.  Hugh  Ogilvie,  fo* 
there  he  is  riding  down  the  street.  And  oh  !— 
doesn't  he  look  up  at  the  window,  Miss  Katha- 
rine ?  Well,  he  is  a  fine-looking  fellow — so  ( 
congratulate  you,  my  dear." 


THE  OGILVIES. 


57 


If  the  flashes  of  indignant  womanly  pride  that, 
shot  from  Katharine's  eyes  had  been  lightning- 
gleams,  they  would  have  consumed  Isabella  to 
tshes. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Oh !  I  see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy  petty  part, 
With  a  little  horde  of  maxims  preaching  down  a  daugh- 
ter's heart.  TENNYSON. 

Well !  nature  makes  some  wise  provisions !  We  might 
be  envious  of  others'  happiness,  if  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten 
we  did  not  despise  it.  L.  E.  L. 

KATHARINE  rode  home  with  her  father  and 
Hugh,  more  silent  and  thoughtful  than  was  her 
wont,  Two  or  three  times  her  horse  started  at 
some  restless,  almost  angry  motions  of  its  young 
rider ;  and  when  Hugh  came  anxiously  to  her 
assistance,  she  rejected  his  aid  a  little  sharply. 

"  How  independent  you  are,  this  morning, 
Katharine  !"  said  the  young  man,  jestingly. 

"  Of  course  I  am,  and  always  will  be,"  was 
the  quick  answer. 

Hugh  looked  surprised'  and  somewhat  hurt — 
and  Katharine  instantly  reproached  herself. 
"How  foolish  I  am — how  wrong!"  she  thought. 
"It  might  have  been  all  nonsense — the  mere 


gossip  of  Isabella, 
about  it." 


I  will  not  think  arry  more 


So  she  called  Hu<*h  to  her  side,  with  some 
trivial  observation,  in  which  the  gentle  tone 
made  all  the  concession  needed.  But  as  she 
noticed  how  hastily  he  spurred  his  horse  for- 
ward at  her  summons,  and  how  his  whole  coun- 
tenance beamed  with  delight,  Katharine  again 
became  troubled. 

In  these  frequent  rides,  the  two  young  people 
were  in  the  habit  of  lingering  behind  Sir  Rob- 
ert, to  look  at  the  country  around,  and  talk.  But 
this  time,  Katharine  kept  her  horse  close  beside 
her  father's,  the  whole  way ;  and  when  they 
reached  Summerwood,  she  leaped  off,  without 
waiting  for  Hugh's  customary  assistance. 

"  Still  independent,  Katharine,"  said  the  young 
man,  too  little  sensitive,  or  else  feeling  too  sure 
of  his  prize,  to  notice  the  change  in  his  cousin's 
manner. 

She  laughed — but  the  laugh  was  forced ;  and 
springing  up  the  hall-steps,  with  an  excuse  about 
being  late  for  dinner,  she  went  at  once  to  her 
own  room — her  young  bosom  oppressed  with  a 
new  care. 

The  possibility  of  Hugh's  wishing  to  make 
her  his  wife  had  never  crossed  Katharine's  mind 
before.  She  had  no  girlish  vanity ;  and  the  one 
great  love  which  absorbed  every  thought,  aim, 
and  desire  of  her  heart,  shut  out  from  it  entirely 
all  lesser  fancies,  or  even  the  suspicion  of  their 
existence  in  others.  Besides,  all  her  life  she 
had  looked  upon  Hugh  as  a  brother,  and  treated 
him  as  such.  His  quiet  nature  was  satisfied 
with  this  frank  and  affectionate  intercourse ;  and 
believing  that  in  her  secluded  life  she  had  no 
chance  of  forming  any  other  attachment,  he 
waited  until  his  uncle  gave  him  leave  to  say — 
"Katharine,  will  you  marry  me?" — fully  per- 
suaded that  she  would  at  once  answer,  "  Thank 
you,  Hugh;  1  will."  As  he  really  loved  her 
very  dearly,  he  would  then  most  probably  tell 
her  so  :  and  so  they  would  settle  down  into  pla- 
cid matrimonial  felicity,  suck  as  was  in  fashion 
at  Summerwood. 


And  was  the  passionate  dream  of  almost  idol- 
atrous love  to  subside  into  this  ?  Was  Katha- 
rine, with  her  intense  yearning  after  all  that  is 
great  and  glorious — with  a  soul  so  high,  that  it 
sought  a  yet  loftier  for  its  worship — thus  to  sink 
from  her  ideal  of  marriage  ?  There,  husband 
and  wife  stood  hand-in-hand  in  their  fair  and  be- 
loved home — genius,  worth,  and  world-wide 
goodness  shedding  dignity  and  happiness  around 
them.  Could  she  barter  this  glorious  future  for 
a  life  with  one  who  had  no  higher  interests  than 
the  kennel,  the  stable,  and  the  chase  ? 

Katharine  almost  maddened  at  the  thought. 
But  immediately  she  reproached  .herself  for  tht 
intense  scorn  which  she  felt  embittering  her 
against  Hugh — poor,  easy  Hugh  !  How  could 
he  help  it,  if  he  were  not  endowed  with  brains  ? 
Katharine  began  to  ponder  on  the  possibility  of 
his  loving  her;  and  her  memory,  roving  over 
past  years,  found  many  a  little  circumstance 
that  confirmed  this  vague  suspicion.  She  grew 
very  sad.  The  love  that  filled  her  own  heart, 
taught  her  compassion  toward  Hugh. 

She  thought  of  her  parents,  and  of  the  motives 
which  Isabella  had  imputed  to  them.  The  de- 
tested words,  "a  good  match,"  rang  in  her 
ears,  goading  her  proud  nature  to  resistance. 

"  They  shall  never  buy  and  sell  me  ! — me,  to 
whom  he  gave  his  loving  words,  his  blessing, 
his  parting  kiss.  Oh,  Paul,  Paul !  no  man  liv 
ing,  save  you,  shall  ever  have  this  hand.  I  wih 
keep  it  for  you  unto  my  life's  end  !"  And  she 
kissed  with  wild  passion  her  own  delicate  hand 
— the  hand  which  had  once  been  made  forever 
sacred  by  the  clasp  of  Paul  Lynedon's. 

Then  she  went  to  the  little  desk  where  she 
kept  all  her  treasures.  There,  with  many  a 
girlish  memento — token-flowers,  so  idly  given 
but  so  fondly  kept — lay  the  only  letter  she  had 
ever  received  from  him — the  one  he  had  written 
after  his  rejection  by  Eleanor.  At  first,  how 
rarJtarous  had  been  the  joy  it  brought  to  her ! — 
And  with  succeeding  weeks  and  months  came 
a  happiness  calmer,  indeed,  but  not  less  deep. 
In  all  her  longing  regrets  for  him,  in  all  her 
light  home-troubles,  how  it  comforted  her  to  fly 
to  her  little  treasure-house,  lay  her  cheek  upon 
the  paper,  and  feel  that  its  very  touch  changed 
all  tears  to  smiles !  How  blessed  it  was  to  read 
over  and  over  again  her  name  written  in  his  own 
hand — linked,  too,  with  tenderest  words,  "My 
dear  Katharine,  my  true  Katharine  !" 

And  she  was  true — fatally  true — to  the  love 
which  she  deemed  she  read  in  this  letter.  The 
thoughtless  outburst  of  wounded  feeling,  idly 
penned  and  soon  forgotten,  became  to  her  de- 
ceived heart  a  treasure  which  gave  it  its  hope — 
its  strength — its  life.  She  never  doubted  him 
for  one  moment — not  even  when  his  absence 
grew  from  months  into  years,  and  no  tidings 
either  of  him  or  from  him  ever  reached  her 
loneliness.  Some  strange  necessity  detained 
him ;  but  that  he  would  come  back  to  claim  the 
love  which  he  had  won,  she  felt  as  sure  as  that 
the  sun  was  in  the  heavens.  Once  only,  tha 
terrible,  withering  thought  struck  her,  that  he 
was  dead  !  But  no — for  in  death  he  would  have 
remembered  her.  She  did  not  conjure  up  that 
horror  again — she  could  not  have  done  so,  and 
lived !  So  she  waited  calmly — all  her  care  being 
to  make  herself  worthy  of  him,  and  of  that  bless- 
ed time  when  he  should  claim  her.  She  str^e  to 


THE  OG1LV1ES. 


ift  herself  nearer  to  him,  in  intellect,  heart,  and 
soul ;  she  cherished  her  beauty,  and  rejoiced  as 
She  saw  herself  grow  fairer  day  by  day ;  she 
practiced  every  graceful  accomplishment  that 
might  make  her  more  winning  in  his  sight; 
and  when,  at  last,  the  world's  praises  were  lav- 
ished at  the  feet  of  Sir  Robert  Ogilvie's  heiress, 
Katharine  gloried  in  her  resistless  charms,  her 
talents,  and  her  beauty,  since  they  were  all  for 
him  ! 

There  was  in  her  but  one  thing  wanting — 
the  deep,  holy  faith  which  sees  in  love  itself  but 
the  reflection  of  that  pure  ideal  after  which  all 
should  strive,  and  which  in  the  heart's  wildest 
devotion  never  suffers  the  Human  to  shut  out  the 
Divine. . 

Katharine  took  the  letter  and  read  it  for  the 
thousandth  time.  Its  tender  words  seemed 
breathed  in  her  ear  by  Paul's  own  voice,  giving 
her  comfort  and  strength.  Then  she  placed 
before  her  the  likeness,  which,  no  longer  hung 
up  in  her  chamber,  was  now  hidden  carefully 
from  sight.  She  gazed  upon  it  fondly — yearn- 
ingly ;  but  she  thought  not  of  the  young  poet's 
face — she  only  felt  as  though  she  were  looking 
into  Paul  Lynedon's  eyes. 

*;  They  shall  never  tear  me  frdm  you,  my  own, 
own  love — my  noble  one!"  she  cried.  "I  will 
stand  firm  against  father — mother — the  whole 
world.  I  will  die  rather  than  wed  any  man 
living  save  you!" 

But  she  felt  rather  ashamed  of  these  heroic 
resolutions  against  unjust  parents,  &c.,  &c., 
when  she  found  no  change  in  the  behavior  of 
any  of  the  party.  Her  good-natured  father,  her 
kind  moiiiei,  and  her  quiet,  easy-tempered  Hugh, 
seemed  by  no  means  characters  for  a  stern  trag- 
edy of  blighted  love  and  innocence  oppressed. 
In  the  course  of  a  week  Katharine's  suspicions 
died  away,  and  she  smiled  at  the  easy  credence 
ehe  had  given  to  an  idle  rumor.  But,  ne^ver- 
theless,  the  thoughts  which  it  awakened  were 
not  without  their  influence,  but  rooted  deeper 
and  deeper  in  her  heart  its  intense  and  engross- 
ing love. 

One  day  Lady  Ogilvie  entered  her  daughter's 
little  study — it  was  still  the  old,  beloved  room — 
with  an  air  of  mysterious  importance,  and  a  let- 
ter in  her  hand. 

"  My  dear  Katharine,  I  have  some  news  for 
you.  Here  is  a  letter  from  your  aunt  Worsley ; 
but  read  it  yourself — it  will  save  me  the  trouble 
of  talking." 

And  Lady  Ogilvie — now  grown  a  little  older, 
a  little  stouter,  and  a  good  deal  less  active — 
sat  down  in  the  arm-chair — the  very  arm-chair 
wherein  Sir  James  had  died — and  began  to  stroke 
a  great  black  eat  of  which  Katharine  tcok  affec- 
tionate care,  because  in  its  kitten-days  it  had 
been  a  plaything  of  her  grandfather's  second 
childhood.  Once  or  twice  Lady  Ogilvie  glanced 
toward  her  daughter's  face,  and  wondered  that 
Katharine  manifested  scarcely  any  surprise,  but 
returned  the  letter,  merely  observing — 

"  Well,  mamma,  I  am  sure  you  are  very  glad, 
and  so  am  I." 

"  Really,  my  dear,  how  quietly  you  take  it ! 
A  wedding  in  the  family  does  not  come  every 
day.  I  feel  quite  excited  'about  it  myself." 

"  But,  mamma,  it  is  not  exactly  news  to  me. 
I  met  Mr.  Penny thorne  the  day  I  was  at  aunt 
Worsley's." 


"  And  you  never  said  a  word  about  it !" 

"It  would  not  have  been  right,  as  Isabella 
begged  me  not." 

"  Young  people  should  never  keep  any  thing 
from  their  parents,"  was  the  mild  reproof  of 
Lady  Ogilvie. 

"Indeed,  dear  mamma,  to  tell  the  truth,  1 
have  scarcely  thought  of  the  matter  a  second 
time,  as  I  did  not  take  much  interest  in  the  gen- 
tleman. But  I  am  glad  Isabella  is  to  be  mar- 
ried, since  I  think  she  wished  it  very  much." 
And  the  slight  satirical  tendency  which  lay 
dormant  in  Katharine  peeped  out  in  a  rather 
comically-repressed  smile. 

"It  is  very  natural  a.  young  person  should 
wish  to  be  settled,"  answered  the  impassive 
Lady  Ogilvie  —  "especially  when  she  is,  like 
your  cousin,  the  eldest  of  a  large  family.  The 
only  thing  requisite  is,  that  she  should  make  a 
suitable  match." 

Katharine  started  a  little,  and  her  fair  brow 
contracted  for  a  moment  at  the  disagreeable 
reminiscences  which  her  mother's  last  words 
recalled.  But  Lady  Ogilvie  went  on  quite  un- 
consciously. 

"  In  Isabella's  case  every  thing  seems  satis 
factory.  With  your  father,  Mrs.  Worsley*  is,  of 
course,  more  explicit  than  with  me ;  and  her 
letter  to  him  states  that  the  gentleman  has  a 
good  income  and  excellent  prospects.  The 
family  are  respectable,  too,  though  rather  cit- 
oyen.  But  that  will  not  signify  to  Isabella,  as 
Mr.  Frederick  Pennythorne  intends  taking  a 
house  at  the  west-end.  Indeed,  from  what  Sir 
Robert  tells  me,  I  should  consider  Isabella  most 
fortunate,  as  she  has  little  or  no  fortune,  and 
may  not  have  a  better  offer." 

During  this  speech,  delivered  rather  prosily 
and  oracularly,  Katharine  had  listened  in  perfect 
silence.  Once  or  twice  she  bit  her  beautiful 
under  lip  until  its  curves  grew  of  a  deeper  rose, 
and  tapped  her  little  foot  restlessly  upon  the 
cushion,  so  as  materially  to  disturb  the  peace 
of  mind  of  the  great  black  cat  who  usually 
claimed  it.  When  Lady  Ogilvie  ceased,  ex- 
pecting a  replv,  the  only  one  she  gained  was — 

"Well,  mamma?" 

"  Well,  my  dear,  you  seem  to  take  very  little 
interest  about  the  matter." 

"Not  a  great  deal,  I  confess." 

"  What  an  odd  girl  you  are,  Katharine !  I 
imagined  all  young  ladies  of  your  age  must  be 
interested  in  love  and  matrimony,"  said  the 
mother,  eying  her  child  rather  suspiciously. 

"  I  don't  think  the  two  are  united  in  this  case," 
answered  Katharine,  "  and,  therefore,  I  care  less 
about  it." 

"  But,  my  dear  child,  you  are  coming  to  an 
age  when  it  is  necessary  to  have  right  ideas  on 
these  points.  Most  probably,  some  time  or 
other,  you  yourself — " 

"  You  do  not  want  to  send  Katharine  away 
from  you?"  said  the  girl,  rising  suddenly,  and 
putting  her  arms  round  her  mother's  neck,  so 
that  her  face  was  hid  from  Lady  Ogilvie's  ob- 
servation. 

"  By  no  means,  love ;  but — " 

"  Then  we  will  not  talk  about  it." 

"  Not  if  you  do  not  like  it,  my  darling,"  said 

the  mother,  fondly ;  and  at  the  moment  a  sudden 

and  natural  impulse  of  maternal  jealousy  made 

j  her  feel  that  it  would  be  hard  to  give  ut  her 


THE  OGILVIES. 


»nly  child  to  any  husband  whomsoever.  Fhe 
drew  Katharine  to  the  stool  at  her  feet. 

"  Sit  down  here,  love,  and  let  us  go  on  talk- 
ing about  Isabella.  You  know  she  wishes  to 
have  you  for  bridesmaid — shall  you  like  it?" 

"Yes,  certainly,  if  you  are  willing." 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure ;  and,  moreover,  as  the  mar- 
riage is  to  be  so  soon,  before  Mrs.  Worshy 
leaves  London,  your  papa  intends  proposing 
that  it  shall  take  place-  at  Summerwood.  It 
will  cause  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  but  then  Isa- 
bella is  his  only  sister's  child,  and  has  no  father 
living.  Sir  Robert  thinks  this  plan  would  be 
more  creditable  to  the  family  than  having  her 
married  from  lodgings ;  and  I  quite  agree  with 
him,  especially  as  it  will  please  your  aunt  so 
much." 

"  What  a  good,  kind,  thoughtful  mamma  you 
are!"  murmured  Katharine,  with  a  sudden 
twinge  of  conscience  as  she  remembered  all 
the  conflicting  ideas  which  had  passed  through 
her  mind  within  the  last  ten  minutes. 

"And  now,  my  dear,  as  there  is  no  time  to 
be  lost,  I  have  ordered  the  carriage,  that  we 
may  go  at  once  to  your  aunt's  and  arrange 
about  the  dresses  and  other  matters.  She  will 
make  a  nice  bridesmaid,  will  my  little  Kath- 
arine !  I  shall  quite  like  to  see  her,"  added  the 
mother,  affectionately  passing  her  hand  down 
the  smooth,  braided  hair. 

Katharine  laughed  as  merrily  as  a  child. 

"  And  when  she  comes  to  be  a  bride  herself," 
continued  Lady  Ogiivie,  in  tones  whose  formal- 
ity had  sunk  to  an  almost  perceptible  tremulous- 
ness,  "  she  will  make  a  good  choice,  'and  marry 
so  as  to  please  her  papa  and  me." 

"  I  will  never  marry  without  consulting  your 
will  and  my  father's,"  said  Katharine,  softly,  but 
i. rally  ;  "  and  you  must  leave  me  equally  free  in 
mine." 

"  Of  course  we  shall,  my  child  !  But  there  is 
time  enough  to  think  about  that.  Now,  let  us 
go  together  and  congratulate  Isabella." 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

"Tis  a  mom  for  a  bridal— the  merry  bride  bell 

Rings  clear  through  the  greenwood  that  skirts  the  chapelle. 

The  rite-book  is  closed,  and  the  rite  being  done, 
They  who  knelt  down  together  arise  up  as  one  : 
Fair  riseth  the  bride— oh,  a  fair  bride  is  she ! 
But  for  all  (think  the  maidens),        *        *        * 
No  saint  at  her  praying.  E.  B.  BROWNING. 

"  How  beautiful  you  look  in  your  bridal  dress, 
Katharine !"  cried  Hugh,  as  he  met  her  upon 
the  staircase  on  the  wedding-morning.  He 
could  not  forbear  taking  hold  of  both  her  hands, 
and  gazing  admiringly  in  her  bright  young  face. 
"I  declare  you  only  want  the  orange-blossoms 
to  look  like  a  bride  yourself — and  a  great  deal 
prettier  than  Miss  Bella,  too,  as  I  always  said 
you  were." 

"Thank  you,  Hugh,"  returned  his  cousin, 
with  a  laugh  and  a  low  courtesy.  "  Only  it  is 
as  well  that  the  bride  does  not  hear  you ;  for 

Cknow,"  she  added,  giving  way  to  a  light- 
rted,  girlish  jest,  "you  know  that  once  upon 
a  time  you  thought  her  very  handsome,  and 
people  said  that  Isabella  need  not  go  out  of  the 
family  in  search  of  a  husband." 

"  Pooh  !  nonsense  !     I  hope  you  never  thought 


so.     Indeed,  Katharine,  t  should  be  very  much 
vexed  if  you  did,"  said  Hugh,  earnestly. 

Katharine's  color  rose,  and  she  drew  her  hand 
away. 

"  Really,  I  never  thought  about  the  matter  at 
all.  I  am  too  young  to  consider  such  things." 

Hugh  looked  disappointed  and  confused.  At 
•last  he  stammered  out  hastily — 

"I  wish  you  would  come  into  the  garden 
with  me,  and  let  me  gather  your  bouquet  and 
Isabella's  from  the  greenhouse.  And — and— 
I've  two  such  pretty  little  puppies  in  the  stable 
to  show  you,"  he  added,  evidently  ransacking 
his  brain  for  various  excellent  excuses.  "Do 
come,  Katharine !" 

"Not  now,"  answered  Katharine,  striving  to 
get  away ;  for  the  apprehension  which  Isabella 
had  first  suggested  had  never  been  entirely  erad- 
icated, but  sprang  up  again  painfully  at  the  least 
cause.  And  though  the  foolish  vanity  which 
construes  every  little  attention  into  declared  ad- 
miration was  as  far  from  Katharine's  nature  as 
darkness  from  light,  yet  it  sometimes  struck  her 
that  Hugh  was  growing  less  of  a  cousin  and 
more  of  a  lover  every  day. 

"You  are  not  kind  to  me,  Katharine,"  said 
the  young  man,  almost  sulkily.  "I  don't  care 
a  bit  for  either  the  flowers  or  the  puppies,  or 
any  thing  else,  except  on  your  account;  and 
that  you  must  know  pretty  well  by  this  time." 

"I  do  not  understand  you,  cousin  Hugh." 

"There,  now,  don't  be  angry  with  me,"  said 
Hugh,  humbled  in  a  moment.  "  Oh,  Katharine, 
I'd  give  the  best  hunter  in  the  stables — and 
that's  saying  a  great  deal,  considering  it's  Brown 
Bess — I'd  give  the  mare  herself,  or  any  thing 
else  in  the  world,  if  you  only  cared  for  me  half 
as  much  as  I  do  for  you." 

Katharine  was  touched.  She  had  known  hina 
many  years,  and  had  never  seen  him  so  agitated 
before. 

"Indeed,  I  do  like  you  very  much  as  my 
cousin — my  kind,  good-natured  cousin,  Hugh!" 

"And  is  that  all?" 

"Yes,"  said  Katharine,  seriously  and  earnest- 
ly. "And  now  good-by,  dear  Hugh,  for  there 
is  Isabella  calling." 

She  broke  away,  and  Hugh  saw  the  glimmer 
of  her  white  dress  passing  not  to  the  bride's 
chamber  but  to  her  own. 

*"She  turned  pale — she  trembled,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "and  I'm  sure  she  called  me  'dear 
Hugh !'  Girls  often  don't  mean  half  they  say, 
so  I'll  count  her  yes  as  nothing.  Heigh-ho !  I 
wish  it  were  my  wedding-day  instead  of  Bella's. 
How  tiresome  it  is  of  my  uncle  to  tie  my  tongue 
in  this  way !  I'll  ask  him  again  this  very  day 
when  he  means  to  let  me  marry  Katharine." 

So  the  young  man  descended  the  stairs,  and 
went  out  at  the  hall-door,  tapping  his  boots  with 
bis  riding-whip,  and  whistling  his  usual  comment 
on  the  fact  of  his  "love"  being  "but  a  lassie 
yet,"  in  very  doleful  style. 

Katharine,  who,  pale  and  agitated,  stood  at 
tier  window  trying  to  compose  herself,  both  saw 
and  heard  him.  Then,  she  pressed  her  hand  on 
her  swelling  heart,  and  the  deep  sadness  which 
Hugh's  words  had  caused  changed  to  pride. 

"  He  thinks  to  have  me  against  my  will,  does 
he?  And  here  have  I  been  so  foolish  as  to 
weep  because  I  must  give  him  pain !  I  will 
not  care  for  that.  What  signifies  it  whether  ho 


49  THE  OG 

loves  me  or  not  ?  But  my  father  will  ask  me 
the  reason  that  I  refuse  Hugh ;  and  I  dare  not 
tell— I  could  not.  O  Paul!  why  do  you  not 
come  and  take  all  this  sorrow  from  me?" 


mourned  the  girl;  and  at  once  all  her  pride 
melted,  and  all  her  grief  was  charmed  away  at 
the  whisper  of  that  beloved  name. 

The  wedding  took  place,  as  outwardly  gay 
and  inwardly  gloomy  as  most  weddings  are. 
There  were  the  parents  of  the  "happy  couple" 
all  pride  and  satisfaction — Mr.  Pennythorne 
sending  forth  his  bon-mots  in  a  perfect  shower 
of  scintillations,  so  that  his  conversation  became 
quite  a  pyrotechnic  display.  Mrs.  Pennythorne 
kept  close  to  her  husband,  and  was  rather  un- 
comfortable at  seeing  so  many  strange  faces. 
Yet  her  maternal  gaze  continually  wandered 
from  those  to  the  bridegroom's — and  a  tear  or 
two  would  rise  silently  to  the  soft,  brown  eyes. 
Once  when  they  were  setting  out  for  the  church, 
Lady  Ogilvie  noticed  this. 

"  I  dare  say  you  feel  sorry  to  part  with  your 
son,"  she  whispered,  kindly:  "I  understand  he 
has  always  lived  at  home.  But  you  have  another 
child,  Isabella  says,  who  was  prevented  coming 
to-day." 

"Yes,  thank  you,  ma'am — Lady  Ogilvie,  I 
mean,"  stammered  the  timid  Mrs.  Pennythorne, 
with  a  glance  toward  her  husband,  who  was  at 
the  other  end  of  the  room. 

"I  believe  he  is  much  younger  than  Mr. 
Frederick?"  pursued  the  considerate  hostess. 
"I  am  really  sorry  we  did  not  see  him  to-day." 

"Leigh  can  not  go  out  this  winter-time — he 
is  not  very  strong,"  answered  the  guest.  And 
then — a  sort  of  maternal  freemasonry  being  es- 
tablished between  them — Mrs.  Pennythorne 
went  on  more  courageously.  "I  was  thinking 
about  Leigh  just  then ;  I  shall  have  only  him  to 
think  about  when  his  brother  is  married." 

"  Until  Leigh — is  not  that  his  name  ? — grows 
up,  and  is  married  himself,"  said  the  other  ma- 
tron, with  a  smile. 

"Ah,  yes!"  returned  Mrs.  Pennythorne, 
eagerly ;  "  he  will  be  a  man  soon — tall  and 
strong ;  tlaey  say  these  delicate  boys  always 
make  the  stoutest  men." 

"  You  will  go  to  his  wedding  next,"  pursued 
Lady  Ogilvie. 

"  Shall  I  ?— oh,  yes,  of  course  I  shall !  but  n,ot 
.  just  yet,  for  I  don  t  think  I  could — no,  it  would 
break  my  heart  to  part  with  Leigh !  He  must 
bring  his  wife  home — ay,  that  shall  be  it!" 
added  she,  suddenly,  as  if  to  explain  even  to 
herself  that  the  words,  "I  could  not  part  with 
Leigh,"  related  solely  to  his  marrying.  The 
poor  mother ! 

Isabella  was  quite  in  her  glory.  She  had 
attained  the  great  aim  of  her  life — the  being 
married  :  it  did  not  signify  much  to  whom.  So 
that  she  reached  the  honor  of  matronhood,  she 
was  almost  indifferent  as  to  who  conferred  it — 
she  cared  little  what  surname  was  on  her  cards, 
if  the  Mrs.  were  the  prefix.  Perhaps,  once  or 
twice,  when  Hugh  Ogilvie  and  Frederick  Penny- 
thorne stood  talking  together,  she  remembered 
the  time  when  she  had  fancied  herself  very  much 
in  love  with  the  former.  She  laughed  at  the 
notion  now.  If  Hugh  were  the  taller  and  hand- 
somer, her  Frederick  had  such  lively  London 
manners,  and  dressed  so  much  better.  Isabella 
was  quite  satisfied  ;  only  she  took  care  to  show 


her  cousin  how  much  he  had  lost,  by  exhibiting 
great  pride  and  fondness  toward  her  bridegroom, 
and  deporting  herself  toward  Hugh  with  a  re- 
served and  matronly  dignity. 

Katharine  alone — for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
present  at  a  wedding — was  grave  and  silent. 
She  trembled  as  she  walked  up  the  aisle ;  she 
listened  to  the  solemn  words  of  the  service  with 
a  beating  heart.  "  To  have  and  to  hold  from  this 
day  forward,  for  better  for  worse,  for  richer  for 
poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  to  love,  cherish, 
and  obey,  until  death  us  do  part."  And  this  vow 
of  almost  fearful  import,  comprehending  so  much, 
and  in  its  wide  compass  involving  life,  soul, 
and  worldly  estate,  either  as  a  joyful  offering  or 
as  a  dread  immolation — this  awful  vow  was 
taken  lightly  by  two  young  creatures,  who  care- 
lessly rattled  it  over  during  -the  short  pause  of 
jests  and  compliments,  amid  lace  and  satin  flut- 
terings,  thinking  more  of  the  fall  of  a  robe,  or  tba 
fold  of  a  cravat,  than  of  the  oath,  or  of  each  other ! 

Katharine  divined  not  this,  for  her  fancy  ideal 
ized  all.  The  marriage  scene  touched  her  pure, 
young  heart  in  its  deepest  chords.  She  saw  not 
the  smirking  bridegroom — the  affected  bride ; 
her  thoughts,  traveling  into  the  future,  peopled 
with  other  forms  the  dim,  gray  shadows  of  the 
old  church  where  she  had  worshiped  every 
Sunday  from  a  child.  She  beheld  at  her  side 
the  face  of  her  dreams ;  she  heard  the  deep,  low 
voice  uttering  the  troth-plight — "/,  Paul,'  take 
thee,  Katharine;"  and  bowing  her  face  upon 
the  altar-rails,  the  girl  suffered  her  tears  to  flow 
freely. 

"Yes!"  she  murmured  to  herself,  "I  would 
not  fear  to  kneel  in  the  sight  of  heaven,  and 
take  that  vow  toward  thee,  O  my  best  beloved  ! 
— and  I  will  take  it  here  one  day  to  thee,  and 
none  but  thee!" 

Why  was  it  that  in  this  very  moment  the 
bright  dream  of  the  future  was  crossed  by  a 
strange  shadow  from  the  past  ?  Even  while  she 
yet  thought  thus,  there  flashed  across  the  young 
bridesmaid's  memory  that  olden  scene  in  the 
library.  And,  above  the  benediction  of  the 
priest,  the  amen  of  the  congregation — even 
above  the  beloved  voice  which  her  fancy  had 
conjured  up,  there  rang  in  Katharine's  ears  the 
words  of  her  dying  grandfather — '•'•Earth  to 
earth,  ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust!" 

The  ceremony  was  over,  and  Isabella  had  the 
satisfaction  of  hearing  herself  greeted  as  Mrs. 
Frederick  Pennythorne.  A  thought  did  once 
cross  her  mind  that  according  to  the  received 
etiquette  it  was  necessary  for  a  bride  to  indulge 
in  a  slight  faint,  or  a  gush  of  hysterical  tears, 
on  reaching  the  vestry.  But  the  former  would 
spoil  her  bonnet,  and  the  latter  her  eyes;  so  she 
resolved  to  do  neither,  but  resort  to  the  outward 
calmness  of  suppressed  emotion. 

"How  well  she  bears  it,  poor,  dear  child !" 

observed  Mrs.  Worsley.     This  lady  being  one 

of  those  nobodies  who,  wherever  they  go,  always 

contrive  to  make  themselves  invisible,  we  have 

i  not-hitherto  drawn  her  into  the  light ;  nor,  to  tell 

1  the  truth,  have  we  any  intention  of  doing  so. 

After  the  space  often  minutes,  Isabella  quietly 
'  emerged  from  her  fit  of  repressed  feeling,  and 
burst  into  full  splendor  as  "  the  beautiful  and 
I  accomplished  bride,"  in  which  character  she 
I  may  whirl  away  with  her  chosen  to  the  Lakes, 
!  or  in  any  direction  she  pleases ;  for  we  cai  e  too 


THE  OGILVIES. 


61 


little  abou':  the  happy  couple  to  chronicle  their 
honeymoon. 

The  Pennythornes  were  borne  homeward  hi 
Sir  Robert's  carriage;  a  circumstance  which 
made  Mr.  Pennythorne  exult  in  the  good  train- 
ing which  had  caused  his  eldest  son  to  marry 
into  so  high  a  family. 

"  My  Frederick  is  an  excellent  boy;  he  knows 
how  to  choose  a  wife,  God  bless  him !"  said  the 
old  gentleman,  with  somewhat  of  maudlin  senti- 
mentality, for  which  the  excellent  cellar  at  Sum- 
merwood  was  alone  to  blame.  "  Cillie,  my  dear, 
now  you  see  how  right  I  was,  five  years  ago, 
in  putting  an  end  to  that  foolish  affair  with 
Mason's  daughter.  No,  no  !  a  girl  who  worked  as 
a  daily  governess  was  not  a  fit  match  for  my  son." 

"  Poor  Bessie !  Fred  was  not  so  wild  then," 
murmured  Mrs.  Pennythorne.  "Well,  I  hope 
his  new  wife  will  make  him  comfortable." 

"  Comfortable  !"  echoed  the  husband,  her  last 
word  falling  on  his  dulled  ear;  "of  course  she 
will.  I  said  to  him,  soon  after  Mrs.  Lancaster 
recommended  the  Worsleys  to  put  their  Chancery 
suit  into  his  hands,  'Fred,  my  lad,  that's  the 
very  wife  for  you.  Good  family — style — fashion 
— and  money  coming.'  Fred  took  my  advice, 
and  you  see  the  result.  Mrs.  P.,  I  only  hope  that 
stupid  Leigh  will  turn  out  as  well  on  my  hands." 

Mrs.  Pennythorne  sighed:  "I  wonder  how 
Leigh  has  been  all  day !  I  hardly  liked  leaving 
him ;  but  young  Wychnor  promised  to  stay  with 
him  until  we  came  home  from  the  Ogilvies'." 

"  Don't  mention  that  fellow  in  the  same  breath 
with  the  Ogilvies!"  sharply  said  the  husband. 

"  Indeed,  Pierce,  I  will  not,  if  you  don't  like 
it,"  replied  Mrs.  Pennythorne  humbly;  "but  the 
young,  man  has  been  so  attentive  to  poor  Leigh, 
and  has  really  seemed  quite  interested  in  this 
marriage." 

"Mrs.  Pennythorne,  I  am  sleepy;  will  you  be 
so  obliging  as  to  hold  your  tongue  ?"  said  the  old 
gentleman,  with  a  slow  and  somnolent  empha- 
sis :  and  immediately  as  this  sentence  ended,  his 
doze  began. 

The  mother  leaned  her  head  back  on  the 
carriage-cushions,  having  previously  taken  the 
feminine  precaution  of  laying  the  wedding  bon- 
net on  her  lap.  She  did  not  go  to  sleep;  but  her 
thoughts  wandered  dreamily,  first  after  her  eld- 
est born,  and  then  flying  back  some  thirty  years 
they  traveled  over  her  own  wedding  trip.  Final- 
ly, they  settled  in  the  little  back-parlor  in  Blank 
Square,  and  by  the  sofa  whereon  Leigh  was  ac- 
customed to  rest,  hour  after  hour,  with  Philip 
Wychnor  by  his  side. 

"  Poor  boy !  well,  I  can  do  better  without 
Fred  than  without  him.  He  will  get  well  in  the 
summer  and  grow  up  a  man ;  but  he  will  not 
think  of  marrying  for  many  years.  No,  no ; 
we  must  keep  Leigh  with  us — we  will  keep  him 
always,"  said  the  mother. 

O  God!  as  if  with  this  wild  "IwilF1  of  our 
despairing  human  love,  we  could  stand  between 
the  destroyer  and  the  doomed  ! 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

We  think  of  Genius,  how  glorious  it  is  to  let  the  spirit 
go  forth,  winning  a  throne  in  men's  hearts;  sending  our 
thoughts,  like  ships  of  Tyre,  laden  with  rich  merchandise, 
ever  the  ocean  of  human  opinion,  and  bringing  back  a  still 
richer  cargo  of  praise  and  good  will.  L.  E.  L. 


THERE  could  hardly  be  a  greater  contrast  than 
that  between  the  gay  bridal-party  at  Summer- 
wood  and  the  little  dark  parlor  in  Blank  Square 
where  Philip  Wychnor  sat  with  his  young  friend. 
They  had  indeed  grown  to  be  friends,  the  man 
and  the  boy — for  one  counts  time  more  by  the 
heart  than  by  the  head.  According  to  that  reck- 
oning poor  Leigh  was  far  older  than  his  years — 
while  Philip  in  the  freshness  and  simplicity  of  his 
character  had  a  boy's  heart  still,  and  would  prob- 
ably keep  it  forever. 

Nevertheless,  he  did  not  look  by  any  means  so 
much  of  a  boy  as  in  those  days  when  Eleanor 
first  introduced  him  to  the  reader's  notice  by  this 
appellation — nor,  indeed,  as  when  we  last  saw 
him  just  emerging  from  his  weary,  wasting  sick- 
ness. As  he  sat  reading  aloud  to  Leigh,  the 
lamp-light  showed  how  the  delicate  outlines  of 
his  face  had  sharpened  into  the  features  of  man- 
hood ;  the  brow  had  grown  broader  and  fuller, 
the  lips  firmer,  and  there  were  a  new  strength 
and  a  new  character  about  the  whole  head. 

Philip  had  been  tossed  about  on  the  world's 
stormy  currents  until  at  last  he  had  learned  to 
breast  them.  His  powers  of  mind,  the  thews  and 
sinews  of  the  inner  man,  had  matured  accord- 
ingly ;  and  the  more  he  used  them  the  strong- 
er they  grew.  The  dreamer  had  become  the 
worker. 

We  may  say,  with  Malvolio,  that  "  some  are 
born  to  greatness,  and  some  achieve  greatness, 
and  some  have  greatness  thrust  upon  them." 
Philip  Wychnor  was  of  the  latter  class.  His  in 
tellect  seemed  to  work  itself  out  by  the  force  of 
necessity,  and  not  by  inspiration.  He  was  per- 
fectly sincere  when  he  told  Mr.  Pennythorne  that 
he  had  no  genius;  but  the  linnet  reared  in  a 
hedge-sparrow's  nest  never  knows  that  it  can 
sing  until  it  tries. 

So,  it  happened  that  the  same  individual  who 
bad  once  declined  attempting  authorship  on  the 
ground  of  his  entire  unworthiness,  was  now  fair- 
ly embarked  in  literature,  with  a  moderate 
chance  of  success.  All  this  had  come  gradual- 
ly. In  his  deep  straits  of  poverty,  Philip  had 
tried  to  wile  away  the  hours  that  hung  so  heav- 
ily, and  perhaps  to  gain  a  little  money,  by  turn- 
ing to  account  his  knowledge  of  foreign  langua- 
ges. He  mounted  the  ladder  of  fame  by  its  low- 
est step ;  becoming  a  translator  of  small  articles 
for  newspapers  and  magazines — a  sort  of  liter- 
ary hodman,  carrying  the  mortar  with  which 
more  skillful  workmen  might  build.  But  while 
searching  into  and  reproducing  other  people's 
thoughts,  he  uncorisciously  began  to  think  for 
himself.  It  was  in  a  very  small  way  at  first — 
for  his  genius  was  not  yet  fledged,  and  its  feath- 
ers took  a  long  time  in  growing.  He  thought, 
and  with  the  thought  came  unconsciously  the 
power  of  expression.  He  wrote  at  first,  not  by 
impulse  or  inspiration,  but  merely  for  daily  bread. 
Yet  though  in  his  humility  he  never  hoped  to  rise 
higher  than  a  common  laborer  in  the  highways 
of  literature,  he  always  strove  to  do  his  small 
task-work  well  and  worthily,  and  suffered  nei- 
ther carelessness  nor  hope  of  gain  to  allure  his 
pen  into  what  was  false  or  vicious.  All  he  wrote, 
he  wrote  earnestly  :  gradually  more  and  more  so, 
as  the  high  cause  in  which  he  had  engaged  un- 
folded itself  to  his  perception.  But  he  made  no 
outward  display  :  never  put  forth  his  name  from 
its  anonymous  shelter;  and  told  no  person  of  his 


THE  OGILVIES. 


pursuits,  except  Leigh— and  one  more  who  ami 
the  dear  right  of  a  betrothed  to  know  all  con- 
cerning him.  He  had  never  seen  her  again,  and 
many  chances  occurred  to  make  their  correspond- 
ence irregular;  but  still  the  joy,  the  strength, 
the  very  pulse  of  the  young  man's  heart,  was  the 
remembrance  of  Eleanor  Ogilvie. 

We  have  taken  this  passing  glance  at  the  out- 
ward and  in  \rard  changes  in  Philip  Wychnor 
while  he  sal  reading  his  last  story,  sketch,  or 
essay.  This  he  did  more  for  the  sake  of  amusing 
Leigh  than  from  an  author's  vanity;  since,  as 
before  explained,  Philip's  work  was  still  very 
mechanical — the  raw  material  woven  with  care 
and  difficulty  into  a  coarse  web  that  gave  him 
little  pleasure  and  in  which  he  took  no  pride. 
Yet  still,  as  he  went  on,  it  was  some  satisfaction 
to  see  the  evident  interest  that  brightened  Leigh's 
pale  face,  over  which  illness  seemed  to  have  cast 
a  .strange,  even  an  intellectual  beauty.  Every 
now  and  then  the  boy  clapped  his  poor  thin, 
wasted  hands,  applauding  with  childlike  eager- 
ness. When  Philip  paused,  he  discussed  the 
article  in  all  its  bearings  with  an  acuteness  and 
judgment  that  much  enhanced  the  value  of  his 
laudations,  and  brought  a  smile  to  the  young 
author's  cheek. 

"  Why,  Leigh,  you  are  quite  a  critic  !" 

"If  I  am,  I  know  who  made  me  so,"  an- 
swered the  boy,  affectionately.  "I  know  who 
took  the  dullness  out  of  my  head,  and  put  there 
— what  is  still  little  enough — all  the  sense  it 
has." 

"  It  has  a  great  deal.  I  am  bound  to  say  so, 
my  boy,  since  it  is  exercised  for  my  own  benefit ; 
though,  of  course,  I  ought  not  to  believe  a  word 
of  your  praise,"  said  Philip,  laughing. 

"Dont  say  so,"  Leigh  replied,  earnestly. 
"  Indeed,  Philip,  you  will  be  a  celebrated  author 
some  of  these  days — I  know  you  will.  And 
when  you  are  become  a  great  man,  remember 
this  prophecy  of  mine." 

The  serious  tone  and  look  at  once  banished 
the  light  manner  which  Philip  had  assumed, 
partly  to  divert  the  sick  boy.  "I  hardly  think 
so — I  wish  I  could!"  he  said,  almost  sadly. 
''No;  it  takes  far  more  talent  than  I  have  to 
make  a  just  and  deserved  fame  I  don't  look 
for  that  at  all," 

Leigh  answered  with  an  ingenious  evasion. 
"Philip,  do  you  remember  when  I  was  first 
taken  ill — so  ill  as  to  be  obliged  to  give  up  study ; 
and  you  brought  one  day  some  of  your  German 
books,  and  read  to  me  c  Undine'  and  '  Sintram  ?' 
Ah!  what  a  delicious  time  that  was,  after  all 
the  dry,  musty  Cicero  and  Xenophon'"  And 
Leigh  rubbed  his  feeble  hands  together  with  in- 
tense pleasure  at  the  recollection 

Philip  watched  him  affectionately.  "  My  dear 
boy,  how  glad  I  am  that  I  thought  of  the  books !" 

"  So  am  I,  because  otherwise  you  might  never 
have  done  what  you  then  did  through  kindness 
to  me — I  mean  that  translation  from  Riickert, 
which  I  longed  to  have,  so  that  I  might  read  it 
over  and  over  again.  How  good  you  were  to 
me,  dear  Philip !" 

"  But  my  goodness  was  requited  to  myself." 
said  Philip,  laug'hing ;  "  for  you  remember  the 
three  golden  guineas  I  had  from  the  ' Mag- 
azine.' to  which  you  persuaded  me  to  send  the 
tale?" 

'*  That's  just  what  I  mean.     Now,  if  in  one 


lithe  ytar  you  have  gone  on  from  making  a 
translation  just  for  good-nature,  to  writing  beau- 
tiful stories  such  as  this — for  it  is  most  beauti- 
ful !"  cried  Leigh,  energetically — "  why  should 
you  not  rise  to  be  a  well-known  author,  like  my 
— no,  I  don't  mean  that,"  and  the  boy's  face 
grew  troubled— "  but  like  one  of  those  great 
writers  who  do  the  world  so  much  good ;  who 
can  make  the  best  and  wisest  of  people  better 
and  wiser  still,  and  yet  can  bring  comfort  to  a 
poor  sick  boy  like  me.  Would  not  this  be  some- 
thing great  to  try  for,  Philip?"  said  Leigh — his 
tones  warming  into  eloquence,  and  his  large,  soft 
eyes  positively  floating  in  their  own  light. 

Before  Philip  could  answer,  they  were  inter- 
rupted by  the  arrival  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Penny 
thorne.  The  mother's  quick  footstep  was  scarce- 
!  ly  heard  before  she  entered.  It  had  often  touched 
Philip's  heart  of  late  to  see  what  a  new  and  in- 
tense expression  came  into  the  once  unmeaning 
face  and  voice  of  Mrs.  Pennythorne  whenever 
she  looked  at  or  spoke  to  her  son  Leigh.  This 
day  the  young  man  noticed  it  more  than  ever. 
Even  the  presence  of  her  redoubtable  lord,  which 
usually  restrained  every  display  of  feeling,  failed 
to  prevent  her  from  leaning  over  her  boy  and 
kissing  him  fervently. 

"  How  has  my  dear  Leigh  been  all  day  ?"  she 
asked,  anxiously. 

"  Oh,  so  well,  so  content,  mother !"  said  Leigh, 
cheerfully.     "  Ask  Philip  Wychnor  there." 

"  Mr.  Wychnor  is  very  kind."     And  a  look  of 
deep  gratitude  said  more  than  the  words. 

"  Every  thing  went  off  well  ?     Fred  is  really 
married,  then?"  inquired  Leigh. 

"  Yes,  my  dear.     To-morrow  you  shall  hear 
about  it,  and  about  Summerwood;  it  is  such  a 


pretty  place !;' 

"Is  it?"  said  the -boy, 


lidly.  "I  think  I 

heard  Miss  Worsley  say  so,  the  day  she  called, 
but  I  did  not  take  much  interest  in  what  she 
said;  she  tired  me.  You  can't  think,  Philip, 
how  fast  she  talks !" 

"  I  know  she  does— that  is,  I  think  you  said 
so,"  answered  Philip,  correcting  himself,  and 
rising  to  depart. 

"  Don't  go  yet ;  stay  and  hear  a  little  about 
the  wedding.  We  were  talking  so  much  of  it 
this  morning,  you  know." 

Philip  sat  down  agaitf,  not  unwillingly.  He 
j  had  a  vague  pleasure  in  hearing  the  sound  of  the 
I  familiar  names — assured  that  no  one  knew  how 
familiar  they  were  to  him. 

"Now  go  on,  mother;  tell  us  about  the 
Ogilvies." 

"I  did  not  see  much  of  Sir  Robert;  your 
father  talked  to  him ;  and  besides,  he  was  so 
stately.  But  Lady  Ogilvie  was  very  kind.  And 
there  was  Mr.  Hugh,  a  fine  handsome  young 
man — so  polite  to  Fred ! — and  that  sweet,  beau- 
tiful creature,  Miss  Ogilvie." 

Here,  Philip  dropped  his  gloves,  and  stooping 
hastily,  made  several  unavailing  attempts  to  re- 
cover them 

"I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  a  prettier  brides- 
maid than  Miss  Ogilvie— Katharine,  I  believe 
they  called  her.  Shall  I  hold  the  light  for  you, 
Mr.  Wychnor?"  said  simple  Mrs.  Pennythorne, 
compassionating  the  glove-hunter. 

Philip  hurriedly  apologized  for  the  interrup- 
tion. "But  pray  go  on,1'  he  said;  "we  poor 
bachelors  like  to  hear  of  these  merry  doings. 


THE  OG1LV1E? 


63 


Mri  Frederick  Pennythorne  seems  rich  in  hand- 
some relatives  :  how  many  more  attended  her  to 
the  altar?" 

"  There  were  none  but  Miss  Ogilvie ;  she  is 
an  only  child.  Her  father  and  mother  seem  so 
proud  of  her !  —  and  well  they  may.  Perhaps, 
Leigh,  she  may  come  and  stay  with  your  new 
sister,  and  then  you  will  see  her." 

"  Shall  I  ?— I  don't  much  care,"  said  the  sick 
boy,  wearily.  "I  don't  mind  seeing  any  one 
except  you,  mother,  and  Philip  Wychnor.  Are 
you  really  going  then,  Philip?"  and  Leigh,  tak- 
ing his  friend's  hand,  so  as  to  draw  him  close, 
whispered  in  his  ear.  "  Now,  remember  what 
we  were  talking  about  before  they  came  in ;  it 
may  do  you  good  some  time  or  other  to  think 
over  what  I  said — though  I  am.  so  young — per- 
haps stupid  enough  too,  as  they  always  told  me," 
and  a  smile  of  patient  humility  flitted  over  the 
boy's  pale  lips.  "But  never  mind,  there  is  the 
old  fable  of  the  Mouse  and  the  Lion,  you  know; 
we'll  act  it  over  again,  Philip." 

"God  bless  you,  my  dear  boy!"  murmured 
Philip,  as  he  took  his  leave. 

He  had  felt  passing  disappointment  at  not  hear- 
ing that  Eleanor  was  at  Summerwood — as  he  had 
framed  that  reason  to  account  to  himself  for  the 
fact  of  an  unusual  silence  in  her  correspondence. 
This  slight  vexation  returned  again  as  he  walked 
homeward — but  it  soon  passed  away.  A  man's 
strong  heart  is  seldom  entirely  engrossed  by  a 
love-dream,  be  it  ever  so  close  and  dear.  And 
Eleanor  herself  would  have  been  the  last  to 
blame  her  betrothed,  if  these  tender  thoughts  of 
her  became  absorbed  in  the  life-purpose  which 
was  awakening  in  him — since  therewith  also  she 
was  connected,  as  its  origin  and  aim. 

Even  while  he  smiled  at  Leigh  Pennythorne's 
quaint  fable,  Wychnor  acknowledged  its  truth. 
As  he  walked  along,  the  boy's  words  came 
again  and  again  into  his  mind ;  and  he  began  to 
think  yet  more  earnestly  on  his  literary  pursuits 
— what  he  had  doae,  and  what  he  purposed  to  do. 

"  How  can  a  man  touch  pitch  and  not  be  de- 
filed?" says  the  wise  man  of  Israel;  and  Philip 
was  not  likely  to  have  been  thrown  so  much  in 
the  circle  of  Mr.  Pennythorne's  influence  without 
being  slightly  affected  thereby.  His  young  heart, 
filled  to  enthusiasm  with  love  of  literature,  and 
also  with  a  complete  hero-worship  of  literary 
men,  had  been  checked  in  its  most  sensitive 
point.  He  found  how  different  was  the  ideal  of 
the  book-reader  to  the  reality  of  the  book-writer. 
He  had  painted  an  imaginary  picture  of  a  great 
author,  inspired  by  a  noble  purpose,  and  working 
always  with  his  whole  heart  for  the  truth — or  at 
least  for  what  he  esteemed  the  truth — and  for 
nothing  else..  Now,  this  image  crumbled  into 
dust;  and  from  its  ashes  arose  the  semblance 
of  a  modern  "  litterateur"  writing  not  from  his 
earnest  heart,  but  from  his  clever  head— doling 
out  at  so  much  per  column  the  fruit  of  his  brains, 
no  matter  whether  it  be  tinseled  inanity  or  vile 
poison,  so  that  it  will  sell ;  or  else  ready  to  cringe, 
steal,  lie;  by  word  or  by  pen,  becoming  "  all 
things  to  all  men"  if  by  such  means  he  can  get 
his  base  metal  puffed  off  as  gold. 

Philip  Wychnor  saw  this  detestable  likeness 
in  Mr.  Pennythorne — and  it  was  variously  re- 
duplicated in  all  the  petty  dabblers  in  literature 
who  surrounded  him.  A  triton  of  similar  mag- 
nitude is  always  accompanied  by  a  host  of  min- 


nows— especially  if,  as  in  this  case,  the  larger 
fish  rather  glories  in  his  train.  And  so,  our 
young  visionary  began  to  look  on  books  and 
book-creators  with  diminished  reverence ;  and 
in  the  fair  picture  of  literary  fame,  he  saw  only 
the  unsightly  framework  by  which  its  theatrical 
and  deceitful  splendor  was  supported.  He  had 
been  behind  the  scenes. 

Poor  Philip  Wychnor!  He  was  too  young, 
too  inexperienced,  to  know  that  of  all  imitations 
there  must  be  somewhere  or  other  a  vital  reality 
— that  if  the  true  were  not,  its  parody  would 
never  have  existed. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

What  is  a  man, 

If  his  chief  good,  and  market  of  his  time, 
Be  but  to  sleep  and  feed  ?    A  beast,  no  more. 
Sure  He  that  made  us  with  such  large  discourse, 
Looking  before  and  after,  gave  us  not 
That  capability  and  godlike  reason 
To  rust  in  us,  unused. 

I  do  not  know 

Why  yet  I  live  to  say,  This  thing's  to  do, 
Sith  I  have  cause,  and  will,  and  strength,  and  mean 
To  do  it. 

SHAKSPEARK. 

GOOD  Dame  Fortune  makes  it  her  pleasure 
to  walk  about  the  world  in  varied  guise;  sud- 
denly showing  her  bonnie  face  sometimes  in  the 
oddest  wray  and  under  the  oddest  semblance 
imaginable — so  that  it  is  a  considerable  length 
of  time  before  we  begin  to  find  out  that  it  is 
really  her  own  fair  self.  She  came  to  Philip 
Wychnor  that  very  night  as  he  was  returning 
home,  meeting  him  under  the  shroud  of  a  Lon- 
don fog.  And  such  a  fog ! — one  that  people  who 
are  fond  of  elegant  symbolization  would  empha- 
tically describe  as  being  "like  breathing  ropes," 
or  at  least  one  that  might  be  considered  as  a 
suspiration  of  small  twine.  It  was  a  literal 
version  of  the  phrase  "jaundiced  atmosphere," 
for  the  whole  circumambient  seemed  to  have 
grown  suddenly  yellow  and  bilious.  Therein 
all  London  groped  blindfold :  Newroad  omnibuses 
finding  themselves  plunged  against  the  inner 
railings  of  Woburn  Place — and  cabmen,  while 
they  threaded  the  mazes  of  Trafalgar  Square, 
inquiring  in  tones  of  distracted  uncertainty  how 
far  they  were  from  Charing  Cross.  It  was  a 
time  when  each  man's  great  struggle  appeared 
to  be  the  discovery  of  his  own  whereabouts ; 
when  the  whole  world  seemed  bent  on  an  in- 
voluntary fraternization  —  every  body  running 
into  his  neighbor's  arms. 

This  was  exactly  what  Philip  Wychnor  did, 
somewhere  about  Russell  Square.  Dame  For- 
tune, hid  in  the  fog,  laughed  as  she  knocked 
right  into  his  involuntary  embrace  a  chance 
passer-by. 

A  gentle  voice,  obviously  that  of  an  elderly 
man,  expressed  the  usual  apology ;  and  added 
thereto  the  not  uncommon  inquiry,  "Pray,  sir, 
can  you  tell  me  whereabouts  I  am?" 

"  I  fancy,  near  the  British  Museum,"  answered 
Philip. 

"  That's  where  I've  been  this  hour-and-half," 
said  the  voice,  with  a  comic  hopelessness  that 
made  Philip  smile.  "I  live  only  a  few  streets 
off,  and  I  can't  find  my  way  home." 

"  My  case  is  not  unlike  yours,"  laughed  Philip; 


THE  OGILVIES. 


"  and  most  probably  there  are  plenty  more  in  the 
same  predicament,  especially  strangers.  Sup- 
pose, mv  good  sir,  we  were  to  unite  our  fortunes 
—or  misfortunes— and  try  to  make  out  the  way 
together  Mine  is street.  Which  is  yours  ?;' 

*l  The  same ;  and  I'm  very  much  obliged  to 
you,  young  gentleman — for  so  I  perceive  you 
are,  by  your  voice.  May  I  take  your  arm  ?  for 
I  am  old,  and  very  tired." 

"Gladly,"  replied  Philip.  There  was  some- 
thing in  the  simplicity  of  the  manner  that  pleased 
him.  He  liked  the  voice,  and  almost  fancied  he 
had  heard  it  before.  Perhaps  the  old  man  thought 
the  same,  since  when  they  came  to  the  nearest 
lamp  the  two  wayfarers  each  stopped  to  look  in 
the  other's  face.  The  recognition  was  mutual. 

"Bless  my  life!"  cried  the  elder  one,  "you 
are  the  very  young  man  I  found  a  year  ago,  near 
this  spot,  in  a  faint !" 

"And  most  good-naturedly  took  home;  for 
which  kindness  I  have  often  longed  to  thank 
you.  Let  me  do  so  now,"  answered  Philip, 
grasping  his  companion's  hand  with  a  hearty 
shake. 

"  Really,  my  friend,  your  fingers  are  as  young 
and  strong  as  your  arms,"  said  the  queer  little 
old  man  of  the  omnibus.  "  Mine  are  rather  too 
frozen  and  weak  to  bear  squeezing,  this  raw  day ; 
and  besides,  they  are  not  used  to  such  a  cordial 
cripe,"  he  added,  blowing  the  ends  of  the  said 
ngers,  which  peeped  up  bluely  from  a  pair  of  old 
otton  gloves : — yet  he  looked  much  gratified  all 


cotton  g 
the  while. 


"  You  don't  know  how  pleased  I  am  to  meet 
you!"  reiterated  Philip.  "I  often  kept  a  look- 
out in  the  streets  and  squares  for  every — " 

"  Evsry  odd  little  old  fellow,  you  mean  ? 
Well,  for  my  part,  I  never  passed  down  your 
street  without  looking  out  for  you.  Once  I  saw 
your  head  at  the  window,  so  I  knew  you  were 
better." 

"  Why  did  you  never  come  in  ?  But  you  shall 
now;" — ani  Philip,  trusting  to  gratitude  and 
physiognomy,  and  following  an  impulse  which 
showed  how  unsuspicious  and  provincial  he  was, 
took  home  his  queer-looking  acquintance,  invit- 
ing him  to  spend  the  evening,  without  even  ask- 
ing his  name.  The  old  gentleman,  after  a  few 
shy  excuses  ant!  some  hesitation,  settled  himself 
in  the  easy-chair,  and  began  to  make  himself 
quite  comfortable  and  at  home. 

"Will  you  have  some  tea  and  eggs — as  I 
always  have  when  it  is  thus  late?"  said  Wych- 
nor,  coloring  slightly — for  he  had  peered  into 
his  bachelor  larder  only  to  discover  itsjemptiness 
— and  hospitality  is  a  virtue  that  poverty  some- 
times causes  to  grow  rusty.  "  But  perhaps  you 
have  not  dined  ?" 

"  I  never  practice  what  the  world  in  general 
considers  dining — it's  inconvenient,"  said  the 
guest.  "Meat  is  very  dear,  and  not  whole- 
some. I  gave  it  up  a  long  time  ago,  and  am 
much  the  better,  too.  Pythagoras,  my  good  sir 
— depend  upon  it,  Pythagoras  was  the  wisest 
fellow  that  ever  lived.  I  keep  to  his  doctrines." 

Crossing  his  legs,  he  gazed  complacently  at 
the  kettle  which  Philip  put  on  the  fire,  thereby 
eclipsing  its  cheerful  blaze.  These  housekeep- 
ing avocations,  which  the  young  man  afterward 
continued,  even  to  egg-boiling  and  toast-making 
may  a  little  dim  the  romance  that  surrounds— 
or  at  least  ought  to  surround — him  as  a  novel- 


hero  ;  but  as  we  began  by  avowing  Priiup 
Wychnor's  utter  dissimilarity  from  the  received 
ideal  of  that  fascinating  personage,  we  shall  not 
apologize  for  this  little  circumstance.  And  that 
the  inner  life  of  man  goes  on  just  the  same,  en- 
nobling and  idealizing  the  commonest  outward 
manifestation,  is  proved  by  the  fact  that  while 
the  young  host  continued  his  lowly  domestic 
occupations,  and  the  guest  sat  drying  the  wet 
soles  of  his  clumsy  boots,  they  talked — 0  ye 
gods !  how  they  did  talk  ! 

The  stranger  was  an  original,  and  that  Philip 
soon  found.  In  five  minutes  they  had  plunged 
into  the  depths  of  a  conversation  which  sprang 
from  the  remark  concerning  Pythagoras.  The 
little  old  man  quoted  with  the  most  perfect  sim- 
plicity recondite  Greek  authors  and  middle-age 
philosophers,  referring  to  them  without  the 
slightest  pedantry  or  affectation  of  learning. 
Such  things  seemed  to  him  part  of  his  daily  life, 
familiar  as  the  air  he  breathed.  He  wandered 
from  Pythagoras  to  Plato,  then  to  the  Rosicru- 
cian  mystics,  and  onward  to  Jacob  Brehmen, 
finally  landing  in  these  modern  times  with  Hegel 
and  Coleridge.  He  seemed  to  know  every  thing, 
and  to  be  able  to  talk  about  every  thing,  except 
ordinary  topics.  While  lingering  among  these 
he  was  shy— uneasy,  and  could  not  find  a  word 
to  say ;  but  the  moment  he  found  an  opportunity 
of  plunging  into  his  native  element,  he  rushed  to 
it  like  a  duck  to  the  water,  and  was  himself 
again. 

Immediately  his  whole  outer  man  changed. 
Throwing  himself  back  in  the  chair — one  foot 
crossed  on  the  knee  of  the  other  leg,  the  tip?  of 
his  long,  thin  fingers  oracularly  joined  together 
— this  curious  individual  was  set  a-going  like  a  • 
well  wound-up  watch.  His  bright  eye  flashed ; 
his  whole  countenance  grew  inspired,  and  his 
tongue,  now  fully  let  loose,  was  ready  to  pour 
forth  eloquent  discourse.  However,  with  him 
conversation  resembled  rather  a  solo  than  a  duet 
— it  was  less  talking  than  lecturing.  Now  and 
then  he  waited  a  second,  if  his  companion 
seemed  eager  to  make  an  observation,  and  then 
he  went  off  again  in  his  harangue. 

At  last,  fairly  tired  out,  he  began  sipping  his 
tea  with  infinite  satisfaction;  meanwhile  em- 
ploying himself  in  a  close  inspection  of  his  host's 
countenance  and  person.  He  broke  silence,  at 
last,  by  the  abrupt  question — 

"  My  young  friend,  what  are  you  ?" 

Philip  started  at  this  unceremonious  interrog- 
atory ;  but  there  was  something  so  kindly  in  the 
clear  eyes  that  he  only  smiled,  and  answered, 
"My  name  is — " 

"  I  don't  mean  that,"  interrupted  the  old  man ; 
"  I  don't  want  to  know  your  name ;  every  body 
has  one,  I  suppose.  I  asked  what  you  are?" 

"  My  profession  ?" 

"  No— not  your  profession,  but  you — -your  real 
self — your  soul — your  ego.  Have  you  found  out 
that?" 

Philip  began  to  think  his  visitor  was  rather 
more  than  eccentric — slightly  touched  in  the 
head ;  but  the  old  gentleman  went  on — 

"  I  have  a  theory  of  my  own  about  physiogno- 
my, or,  more  properly  speaking,  the  influence  \ 
of  spirit  over  matter.  I  never  knew  a  great 
man  yet — and  I  have  known  a  good  many  (ay, 
though  I  am  an  odd-looking  fellow  to  look  at) — 
I  never  yet  knew  a  man  of  intellect  whose  rrind 


THE 


was  not  shown  in  his  face ;  not  to  the  common 
observer,  perhaps,  but  to  those  who  look  deeper. 
Moreover,  I  believe  firmly  in  sympathies  and 
antipathies.  Why  should  not  the  soul  have  its 
ifl-stincts,  and  its  atmosphere  of  attraction  and 
repulsion,  as  well  as  the  body?  We  respect 
the  outer  machine  sadly  too  much,  and  don't 
notice  half  enough  the  workings  of  the  free 
agent  within." 

"  Well,  my  dear  sir  ?"  said  Philip,  interroga- 
tively) as  his  companion  paused  to  take  breath. 

"Well,  my  friend,  I  dare  say  you  think  all 
this  means  nothing.  But  it  does,  a  great  deal. 
It  explains  why  I  liked  you— why  I  followed  you 
out  of  the  omnibus ;  and  also  why  I  am  here. 
You  have  a  good  face ;  I  read  your  soul  in  it 
like  a  book ;  and  it  is  a  great,  deep,  true  soul, 
thirsting  after  the  pure,  the  lofty,  and  the  divine. 
It  may  not  be  developed  yet ;  I  hardly  think  it 
can  be ;  but  it  is* there.  Now  I  want  to  ask  if 
you  feel  this  in  yourself — if  you  know  what  is 
this  inner  life  of  *  the  spirit  ?'  " 

Philip  caught  somewhat  of  the  meaning  which 
these  singular  words  unfolded,  and  the  earnest- 
ness of  his  guest  was  communicated  to  himself. 
"I  know  thus  far,"  he  said,  "that  I  have  been 
a  student  and  a  dreamer  all  my  life ;  that  I  have 
tried  to  fill  my  head  with  knowledge,  and  my 
heart  with  poetry;  that  I  have  gone  through 
the  world  feeling  that  there  were  in  me  many 
things  which  no  person  could  understand — ex- 
cept one." 

"  Who  was  he  ?" 

Philip  changed  color ;  but  even  had  he  wished 
otherwise,  he  could  not  but  speak  the  truth  be- 
neath that  piercing  gaze.  "It  was  no  man — a 
woman." 

"Ah !"  said  the  old  man,  catching  the  mean- 
ing. "  Well,  such  things  are !  Go  on." 

"  I  have  had  some  trouble  in  my  life ;  latterly, 
rery  much.  It  has  made  me  think  more  deeply ; 
and  I  am  now  trying  to  work  out  those  thoughts 
with  my  pen." 

"  I  imagined  so.     You  are  an  author  ?" 

"I  can  not  call  myself  by  that  name,"  said 
Philip,  humbly;  "I  write,  as  many  others  do, 
for  bread.  But  still  I  begin  to  see  how  great 
an  author's  calling  might  be  made,  and  I  long, 
however  vainly,  to  realize  that  ideal." 

"That's  right,  my  boy!"  cried  the  old  man, 
energetically,  "  I  knew  you  had  the  true  soul  in 
you.  But  how  far  has  it  manifested  itself? — in 
short,  what  have  you  written?" 

Philip  enumerated  his  various  productions. 

"I  have  seen  some  of  them;  very  fair  for 
a  beginning,  but  too  much  written  to  order — 
world-fashion — all  outside.  My  young  friend, 
you  will  begin  to  think  soon.  Why  don't  you 
put  your  name  to  what  you  do  ?" 

"  Because — though  the  confession  is  humiliat- 
ing— I  have  written,  as  I  before  said,  simply 
from  necessity.  It  would  have  given  me  no 
pleasure  to  see  my  poor  name  in  print.  I 
worked  for  money,  not  reputation.  I  am  no 
genius !" 

The  guest  lifted  himself  up  in  his  chair,  and 
fixed  his  keen  eyes  on  Philip.  "And  do  you 
think  every  man  of  genius  does  write  for  repu- 
tation? Do  you  imagine  that  we" — his  uncon- 
scious egotism  was  too  earnest  even  to  provoke 
a  smile — "  that  we  care  whether  Tom  Smith  or 
Hi'ok  »ones  praises  or  abuses  us— that  is,  our 
E 


65 

work,  which  is  our  true  self,  much  more  than 
the  curious  frame-work  on  two  legs  that  walks 
about  in  broadcloth  ?  No  !  a  real  author  sends 
forth  his  brain-children  as  God  did  Adam,  created 
out  of  the  fullness  that  is  in  his  soul,  and  meant 
for  a  great  purpose.  If  these,  his  offspring^ 
walk  upright  through  the  world,  and  fulfill  their 
being's  end — angels  may  shout  and  devils  grin 
— he  cares  as  little  for  one  as  for  the  other." 

Philip — quiet  Philip — who  had  lived  all  his 

life  in  the  precise  decorums  of  L ,  or  in  the 

rigid  proprieties  of  the  most  orthodox  college 
at  Oxford,  was  a  little  startled  at  this  style  of 
language. 

"I  dare  say  you  think  me  profane,"  continued 
his  strange  guest,  "  but  it  is  not  so :  I  am  one 
of  those  who  have  had  the  power  given  them  to 
lift  up  a  littlei  of  the  vail  from  the  Infinite  and 
the  Divine,  and,  feeling  this  power  in  their  souls, 
are  emboldened  to  speak  fearlessly  of  things,  at 
which  common  minds  stupidly  marvel.  I  say, 
with  that  great  new  poet,  Philip  Bailey — 

'  That  to  the  full  of  worship 
All  things  are  worshipful. 

Call  things  by  their  right  names !    Hell,  call  thou  hell ; 
Archangel,  call  archangel;  and  God — God!' 

but  I  do  so  with  the  humble  and  reverent  awe 
of  one  who,  knowing  more  of  these  mysteries, 
is  the  more  penetrated  with  adoration."  And 
the  old  man's  voice  sank  meekly  as  a  little 
child's,  while  his  uplifted  eyes,  spoke  the  deepest 
devotion. 

Philip  was  moved.  There  was  something  in 
the  intense  earnestness  of  this  man  which  touch- 
ed a  new  chord  in  his  heart.  He  saw  amidst  all 
the  quaint  vagaries  of  the  enthusiast,  a  some- 
thing which  in  the  world  he  had  himself  so 
vainly  longed  to  find — a  striving  after  knowl- 
edge for  its  own  sake,  a  power  to  separate  the 
real  from  the  unreal,  the  true  from  the  false. 
And  the  young  man's  whole  soul  sprang  to 
meet  and  welcome  what  he  had  begun  to  deem 
almost  an  idle  chimera. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  cried  he,  seizing  the  hand  of 
his  guest,  "will  you  let  me  ask  you  the  same 
question  you  asked  me — What  are  you  ?" 

"  Outwardly,  just  what  you  see — a  little  old 
man — poor  enough  and  shabby  enough ;  because 
while  other  folk  spend  their  lives  in  trying  how 
to  feed  and  clothe  their  bodies,  he  has  spent  his 
in  doing  the  same  for  his  soul.  And  a  very 
creditable  soul  it  is,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
laughing,  and  tapping  with  his  fore-finger  a 
brow,  full,  high,  and  broad  enough,  to  delight 
any  follower  of  Spurzheim,  with  its  magnificent 
developments.  "  There  is  a  good  deal  of  float- 
ing capital  here,  in  the  way  of  learning,  only  it 
does  not  bring  in  much  interest." 

Philip  smiled.  "So  your  life  has  been  de- 
voted to  study !  Of  what  kind !" 

"Oh,  I  have  contrived,  during  sixty  years,  to 
put  into  this  pericanium  some  dozen  languages, 
a.  good  deal  of  mathematics  and  metaphysics,  a 
little  of  nearly  all  the  onomies  and  ologies,  with 
fragments  of  literature  and  poetry,  to  lighten  the 
load  and  make  it  fit  tight  together.  As  for  ray 
profession,  it  is  none  at  all,  if  you  ask  the  world's 
Dpinion ;  but  I  think  I  may  rank,  however  hum- 
aly,  with  some  honest  fellows  of  old,  who,  in 
Iheir  lifetime,  were  regarded  about  as  little  a» 
[  am.  In  fact,  my  good  friend,  I  think  I  ma> 
call  myself  a  philof  apher." 


THE  OGILVIES. 


"And  a  poet,"  cried  Philip;  "I  read  it  in 
your  eyes." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head.  "  God  makes 
many  poets,  but  He  only  gives  utterance  to  a 
few.  He  never  gave  it  to  me !  Nevertheless, 
I  can  distinguish  this  power  in  others;  I  can 
feel  it  sometimes  rising  and  bubbling  up  in  my 
own  soul ;  but  there  is  a  seal  on  my  lips,  and  I 
shall  remain  a  dumb  poet  to  my  life's  end." 

So  saying,  Philip's  guest  rose,  and  began  to 
button  up  his  well-worn  coat,  as  a  preparative 
to  his  departure. 

"  We  shall  meet  again  soon  ?"  said  the  young 
man,  cordially. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  you  will  always  find  me '  at  the 
British  Museum,  in  the  reading-room !  I  go 
there  every  day.  'Tis  a  nice  warm  place  for 
study;  especially  when  one  finds  that  dinner 
and  fire  are  too  great  luxuries  on  the  same  day. 
I  have  done  so  now  and  then,"  said  the  old  gen- 
tleman, with  a  patient  smile,  that  made  Philip's 
warm  shake  of  the  hand  grow  into  an  almost 
affectionate  clasp,  They  seemed  to  feel  quite 
like  old  friends,  and  yet  to  this  minute  they  did 
not  know  each  other's  name.  The  elder  one 
was  absolutely  going  away  without  this  neces- 
sary piece  of  information,  when  Philip,  disclosing 
his  own  patronymic,  requested  to  know  his 
visitor's. 

"  My  name,  eh  ?  Drysdale — David  Drysdale. 
A  good  one,  isn't  it?  My  great  grandfather 
made  it  tolerably  well  known  among  the  Scottish 
Covenanters.  The  Christian  name  is  not  bad, 
either.  You  know  the  Hebrew  meaning,  'be- 
loved.' Not  that  it  has  been  exactly  suitable 
for  me — I  don't  suppose  any  one  in  the  world 
ever  loved  me  much" — and  a  slight  bitterness 
was  perceptible  in  the  quaint  humor  of  the  tone. 
But  it  changed  into  softness  as  he  added,  "  ex- 
cept—  except  my  poor  old  mother.  Young 
man,"  he  continued,  "when  you  have  lived  as 
long  as  I  have,  you  may  perhaps  find  out  that 
there  are  in  this  world  two  sorts  of  love  only — 
which  last  until  death,  and  after — your  mother's 
love,  and  your  God's." 

He  took  off  his  hat  reverently,  though  they 
stood  at  the  street-door,  exposed  to  the  bleak 
wind ;  then  put  it  on  again,  and  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

Oh,  prophesy  no  more,  but  be  the  poet ! 

This  longing  was  but  granted  unto  thce 
That,  when  all  beauty  thou  couldst  feel,  and  know  it, 
That  beauty  ia  its  highest  thou  couldst  be. 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

I  am  a  youthful  traveler  in  the  way, 
And  this  slight  boon  would  consecrate  to  thee 
Ere  I  with  Death  shake  hands,  and  smile  that  I  am  free. 
KIRKK  WHITE. 

PHILIP  was  in  the  habit  of  laying  up  in  his 
memory  a  kindly  store  of  his  little  d»ily  adven- 
tures, in  order  to  amuse  Leigh  Pcnnythorne. 
Also,  as  the  boy  grew  more  and  more  of  a 
companion  and  friend,  he  shared  many  of  Philip's 
most  inward  thoughts — always  excepting  the  one 
which  lay  in  the  core  of  the  young  man's  heart. 
Therefore  Leigh  was  soon  informed  of  the  sin- 
gular acquaintance  that  Wychnor  made  in  the 
last  chapter. 

"David  Drysdale!"  said  Leigh,  "my  father, 
nay,  every  body  knows  old  Drysdale.  I  have 


seen  him  here  sometimes,  and  -watched  those 
curious  eyes  of  his — they  seem  to  look  one 
through." 

"Does  he  come  often?" 

"  No,  my  father  can't  endure  him — says  he  ia 
such  a  bear.  Then  Drysdale  has  a  great  deal 
of  dry  humor ;  and  when  two  flints  meet  there 
is  a  blaze  directly,  you  know,"  said  the  boy; 
who  sometimes  expressed  himself,  when  alone 
with  Philip,  in  a  manner  that  made  the  tradition 
about  "stupid  Leigh"  appear  of  very  doubtful 
accuracy. 

"  But  still  there  is  no  quarrel  between  him 
and  Mr.  Penny thorne  ?" 

"  Oh,  no;  my  father  would  never  quarrel  with 
such  a  one  as  Drysdale.  He  has  wonderful  in- 
fluence, in  a  quiet  way,  among  literary  people. 
He  knows  every  body,  and  every  body  knows 
him.  I  have  heard  that  his  learning  is  prodi- 
gious !" 

"I  found  out  that  very  soon,"  said  Philip, 
smiling. 

"Ay,  and  so  did  I,"  Leigh  continued.  "In 
those  old  times  of  work — work — work — you 
know,"  and  the  boy  seemed  absolutely  to  shud- 
der at  the  remembrance,  "my  father  once  sent 
me  down-stairs  to  show  off  my  Greek  to  Drys- 
dale. How  the  old  fellow  frightened  me  with 
those  eyes  of  his !  I  forgot  every  word.  And 
then  he  told  my  father  that  I  was  not  quite  such 
a  fool  as  I  looked ;  but  that  I  should  soon  be,  if 
I  went  on  with  the  classics.  Perhaps  he  was 
right,"  said  Leigh,  sighing.  "However,  my 
father  never  asked  him  here  again,  but  made 
me  work  harder  than  ever." 

Philip  saw  that  the  boy's  thoughts  were  wan- 
dering  in  a  direction  not  good  for  him;  so  he 
took  no  notice,  but  pursued  the  questions  about 
the  old  philosopher.  "  How  happens  it,  though, 
that  Drysdale  is  so  poor?" 

"  I  have  heard  my  father  say  it  is  because  of 
his  genius  and  his  learning,  which  are  never  of 
any  use  to  their  possessors.  But  I  do  not  exactly 
think  that;  do  you?" 

"No;  however,  your  father  has  many  opinions 
of  his  own,"  answered  Philip,  always  careful,  in 
their  various  conversations,  to  remember  that 
Leigh  was  Mr.  Pennythorne's  son.  "  It  seems  to 
me  that  this  man's  tastes,  while  rendering  him 
somewhat  unfit  for  the  ordinary  world,  also 
make  him  independent  of  it.  If  he  had  just 
enough  to  keep  him  alive,  and  plenty  of  oppor- 
tunity for  study,  I  fancy  Drysdale  would  be 
quite  happy." 

"Very  likely-;  but  it  is  an  odd  taste,"  said 
Leigh.  "I  can  understand  genius — not  learn- 
ing." 

"Our  queer  old  friend  has  both,  I  think." 
And  Philip  repeated  the  substance  of  the  last 
evening's  conversation,  which  had  clung  closely 
to  his  memory. 

Leigh  listened  eagerly,  partly  because  he  com- 
prehended some  little  of  it,  but  more  because  he 
saw  how  deeply  his  friend  was  interested. 

"Philip,"  he  said  at  last,  "  if  you  understand 
and  feel  all  this,  you  must  have  a  strong  and 
threat  intellect  yourself,  otherwise  you  would  not 
care  for  it  in  the  least." 

The  simple  argument  struck  home .  It  brought 
to  the  young  author's  mind  the  first  consciousness 
of  its  own  powers,  without  which  no  genius  ean 
come  to  perfection.  It  was  not  the  whisper  of 


THE  OGILVIES. 


va ml  /—-the  answering  thrill  to  idle  praise — but 
the  glad  sense  of  an  inward  strength  to  carry 
out  the  purpose  which  filled  the  soul.  It  was 
the  power  which  made  the  new-born  Hercules 
stretch  forth  among  the  serpents  his  babe's 
arm,  and  feel  that  in  its  nerves  lay  the  might  of 
the  son  of  Jove. 

The  thought  was  so  solemn,  yet  so  wildly 
delicious,  that  it  brought  a  mist  to  Philip's  eyes. 
*  God  bless  you,  Leigh!"  he  murmured.  "You 
have  done  me  good  many  a  time ;  and  if  this 
should  be  true,  and  I  ever  do  become  what  you 
say — why,  I  will  remember  your  words,  or  you 
must  remind  me  of  them." 

Leigh  turned  round,  and  looked  for  a  moment 
fixedly  and  sadly  in  his  companion's  face.  "You 
do  not  mean  what  you  say,  Philip ;  you  know 
that  I — .  But  we  will  talk  no  more*  now,"  he 
said,  hurriedly,  as  he  caught  sight  of  his  mother 
entering  the  room.  However,  when  he  had 
minutely  and  affectionately  discussed  with  her 
the  important  topic  of  what  he  could  eat  for 
dinner,  the  boy  lay  for  a  long  time  silent  and 
pensive.  It  might  be  that  upon  him,  too,  had 
come  a  new  and  sudden  thougnt — more  solemn 
than  even  that  which  had  cast  a  musing  shadow 
over  Philip  Wychnor.  Both  thoughts  passed  on 
into  the  undefined  future ;  but  one  was  of  life,  the 
other— of  death ! 

Mrs.  Pennythorne,  supposing  her  boy  was 
asleep,  went  on  talking  to  his  friend  in  her  own 
quiet,  prosy  way,  to  which  Philip  had  now  grown 
quite  accustomed.  His  fondness  and  care  for 
Leigh  had  touched  the  mother's  heart,  and  long 
since  worn  away  her  shyness.  On  his  part  the 
young  man  was  an  excellent  listener  to  the 
monotonous,  but  not  unmusical  flow  of  mild 
repetitions  which  made  up  Mrs.  Pennythorne's 
conversation.  On  this  occasion  it  chiefly  turned 
upon  Frederick's  wedding,  his  new  house  and 
furniture,  which  she  accurately  catalogued,  be- 
ginning with  the  drawing-room  carpets,  and 
ending  with  the  kitchen  fire-irons.  Philip  tried 
to  attend,  but  at  last  his  thoughts  went  roaming ; 
and  his  answers  subsided  into  gentle  monosylla- 
bles of  assent,  which,  fortunately,  were  all  that 
the  lady  required. 

Of  Leigh  his  mother  did  not  speak  at  all,  ex- 
cept to  say  that  the  pony-carriage,  which  Mrs. 
Frederick  had  thought  indispensable,  would  be 
useful  to  take  the  boy  country-drives  when  the 
spring  came — supposing  he  needed  them  by  that 
time,  which  was  not  likely,  as  he  had  been  so 
much  better  of  late.  And  then,  as  she  glanced 
at  the  face  which  lay  back  on  the  sofa-pillow, 
with  the  blue-veined,  shut  eyelids,  and  the  dark 
lashes  resting  on  the  colorless  cheek,  in  a  repose 
that  seemed  almost  deeper  than  sleep,  the  mother 
shivered,  looked  another  way,  and  began  to  talk 
hastily  of  something  else.  A  few  minutes  after, 
the  peculiar  rap  with  which  Mr.  Pennythorne 
signaled  his  arrival,  was  heard  at  the  hall-door. 
Those  three  heavy  strokes  had  always  the  effect 
of  an  electric  shock  on  the  whole  household,  pro- 
ducing a  commotion  from  cellar  to  attic.  Mrs. 
Pennythorne  jumped  up  with  alacrity,  only  ob- 
serving, timidly,  that  she  hoped  the  knock  would 
not  awaken  Leigh. 

"I  am  not  asleep,  mother,"  said  the  boy, 
rousing  himself  as  she  quitted  the  room,  in 
answer  to  the  marital  summons.  "Philip,  come 
heie  a  minute,"  he  added,  hurriedly,  the  flush 


rising  into  his  white  cheek  at  the  very  sound  of 
his  father's  step.  "Don't  tell  him  you  know 
Drysdale — it  might  vex  him.  He  is  rather  pe- 
culiar, you  know." 

"How  thoughtful  you  are  grown,  my  dear, 
kind  boy!"  answered  Philip.  "And  was  that 
what  you  lay  pondering  upon  when  we  fancied 
you  asleep?" 

"Not  quite  all,"  Leigh  replied,  suddenly  look- 
ing grave,  "  but— but— we'll  talk  of  that  another 
time,  Philip.  You  must  go  to  the  Museum  read- 
ing-room ;  it  would  be  such  a  nice  place  for  you 
to  work  in,  far  better  than  your  own  close  little 
room.  You  don't  yet  feel  what  it  is  to  be  shut  up 
all  day,  until  you  grow  sick,  bewildered,  ill.  No, 
Philip,  you  must  not  get  ill,"  cried  the  boy,  earn- 
estly; "you  must  live — live  to  be  a  great  man. 
And  remember  always  what  we  talked  about  to- 
day," he  continued,  dropping  his  voice  to  a  whis- 
per as  his  father  entered  the  room. 

Mr.  Pennythorne  whisked  about  in  his  usual 
style,  skipping  hither  and  thither,  and  shaking 
his  coat-tails  whenever  he  rested,  after  a  fashion 
which  gave  him  very  much  the  appearance  of  a 
water- wagtail.  He  was  evidently  in  high  feather, 
too— asked  Leigh  how  he  felt  himseli,  and  only 
called  him  "stupid"  twice  within  the  first  ten 
minutes.  Then  he  turned  to  Philip. 

"Well,  and  how  does  the  world  treat  you, 
young  Norwych?"  (Mr.  Pennythorne  had  an 
amusing  system  of  cognominizing  those  about 
him  by  some  ingenious  transposition  of  their 
various  patronymics  ;  and  this  was  the  anagram 
into  which  Philip  Wychnor's  surname  had  long 
ago  been  decomposed.)  Where  do  you  put  the 
carriage  and  pair,  my  young  friend?  I  have 
not  seen  it  yet." 

Philip  smiled  ;  but  he  was  too  well  accustomed 
to  the  bitter  "pleasantries"  of  his  would-be 
patron  to  take  offense,  and  he  always  bore  it 
patiently  for  Leigh's  sake. 

"  Ay,  that's  all  the  good  of  being  a  gentle- 
man with  a  large  independence — in  the  head,  at 
least,"  and  Mr.  Pennythorne  laughed  at  what 
he  considered  his  wit.  "  Now,1  here's  my  Fred 
— clever  fellow !  knows  how  to  make  his  way 
in  the  world ! — -just  come  from  his  house  in 
Harley-street — splendid  affair !  furnished  like  a 
duke's — as,  indeed,  Mrs.  Lancaster  observed. 
By-the-by,  Cillie,  my  dear!" 

"Yes,  Pierce,"  was  the  meek  answer  from 
behind  the  door. 

"I  met  Mrs.  Lancaster  in  the  Park — charm- 
ing woman  that!  moves  in  the  highest  circles 
of  literature.  Of  course  you  are  acqainted  with 
her,  St.  Philippus  of  Norwich?" 

"No,"  answered  the  young  man,  shortly, 
"except  once  in  your  hall,  I  never  heard  the 
name."  In  truth  he  never  had,  notwithstanding 
Eleanor's  acquaintance  with  the  lady.  But 
Mrs.  Lancaster  was  the  last  person  likely  to 
have  place  in  the  memory,  or  on  the  lips,  of 
Philip's  betrothed. 

"  Then  you  have  a  pleasure  to  come — for,  of 
course,  the  fair  Lancastrian  will  strain  every 
nerve  for  an  introduction  to  such  a  desirable 
young  man,  that  you  may  embellish  her  literary 
soirees  with  your  well-earned  fame,"  said  Mr. 
Pennythorne.  He  drew  the  bow  at  a  venture ; 
%nd,  as  he  saw  Philip's  cheek  redden,  congratu- 
lated himself  on  the  keen  shafts  of  his  irony, 
quite  unconscious  how  near  sarcasm  touched 


THE  OGILVIES. 


upon  truth.  "And  this  reminds  me,  Gillie,  my 
dear,  that,  hearing  what  a  beautiful  and  talented 
woman  I  have  the  honor  to  call  my  wife,  Mrs. 
Lancaster  has  invited  you  to  grace  with  your 
presence  the  next  soiree." 


Leigh." 

"Gillie,  the  whole  party  would  languish  at 
your  absence,  and  I  can  not  allow  it.  Besides, 
you  will  have  to  matronize  your  fair  daughter- 
in-law,  for  Mrs.  Lancaster  is  well  acquainted 
with  the  Ogilvies,  knows  every  branch  of  the 
family,  and  will  ask  them  to  meet  us.  The 
matter  is  decided — Friday,  the  17th,  sees  us  all 
at  Pittville  Lodge." 

So  saying,  he  hopped  up-stairs,  but  not  before 
Philip's  quick  ears,  had  caught  the  whole  of  the 
last  sentence.  Indeed,  of  late  he  had  been  ever 
on  the  watch  for  some  chance  information  which 
might  have  reference  to  Eleanor,  whose  long 
and  unwonted  silence  had  made  him  feel  some- 
what anxious.  And  even  as  he  walked  home 
that  night,  his  memory  retained  with  a  curious 
tenacity  the  date  and  the  place  of  this  reunion 
of  the  Ogilvie  family.  He  recurred  to  the 
circumstance  again  and  again,  in  spite  of  the 
more  serious  thoughts  which  now  occupied  him ; 
and  almost  wished  that  there  had  been  some 
truth  in  the  sneering  remarks  of  Mr.  Penny- 
thorne  as  to  his  own  future  invitation  to  Pittville 
Lodge. 

There  is  an  old  Norse  fable  about  the  Nornir, 
or  Fates,  who  sit  weaving  the  invisible  threads 
of  human  destiny,  stretching  them  from  heaven 
to  earth,  winding  them  in  and  out  about  man's 
feet,  intercepting  and  intervolving  him  wherever 
he  moves.  One  of  these  gossamers,  stirred  by 
the  breath  of  Philip's  idle  wish,  thereupon  fell 
in  his  pathway  and  entangled  him.  But  the 
web,  at  first  light  as  air,  grew  afterward  into  a 
heavy  coil,  woven  of  the  darkest  fibers  with 
which  humanity  is  bound. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

You  may  rise  early,  go  to  bed  late,  study  hard,  read 
much,  and  devour  the  marrow  of  the  best  authors  ;  and 
when  you  have  done  all,  be  as  meager  in  regard  of  true 
and  useful  knowledge  as  Pharaoh's  lean  kine  after  they 
had  eaten  the  fat  ones.  BISHOP  SANDERSON. 

I  DO  not  think  any  poet  or  novelist  has  ever 
;immortalized  that  curious  place  well  known  to 
All  dabblers  in  literature  or  science,  the  read- 
ing-room at  the  British  Museum.  Yet  there  is 
hardly  any  spot  more  suggestive.  You  pass 
out  of  the  clear  daylight  into  large,  gloomy, 
ghostly  rooms,  the  walls  occupied  by  the  mum- 
mied literature  of  some  centuries,  looking  out 
from  glass  cases.  You  see  ranged  at  various 
tables  scores  of  mute  readers,  who  sometimes 
lift  up  a  glance  as  you  pass,  and  then,  like 
Dante's  ghosts  in  purgatory,  relapse  into  their 
penance.  Indeed,  the  whofe  scene,  with  the 
spectral  attendants  flitting  to  and  fro,  and  the 
dim  vista  beyond  the  man  who  takes  the  checks 
(alas,  for  poetic  diction !),  might  easily  be  im- 
agined some  Hades  of  literature,  where  all  pen- 
guiders  and  brain-workers  were  doomed  to  ex- 
piate their  evil  deeds  by  an  eternity  of  reading. 


Not  only  the  lover  of  poetic  idealization,  but  t,b* 
moralizing  student  of  human  nature,  would  find 
much  food  for  thought  in  the  same  reading- 
room.  Consider  what  hundreds  of  literary 
laborers  have  toiled  within  these  walls  !  Prob- 
ably nearly  all  the  clever  brains  in  the  three 
kingdoms  have  worked  here  at  some  time  or 
other — for  nobody  ever  comes  to  the  reading- 
room  for  amusement.  If  a  student  had  moral 
courage  enough  to  ask  for  the  last  new  novel; 
surely  the  ghosts  of  somber,  ponderous  folios 
would  rise  up  and  frown  him  into  annihilation. 
The  book  of  signatures — where  every  new  comer 
is  greeted  by  the  politest  of  attendants,  handing 
him  the  most  detestable  of  pens — is  in  itself  a 
rich  collection  of  autographs,  comprising  almost 
every  celebrated  name  which  has  risen  year  by 
year,  and  many — oh,  how  many ! — that  the  world 
has  never  chronicled  at  all. 

The  reading-room  is  fertile  in  this  latter  class 
— meek  followers  of  Science,  who  toil  after  her 
and  for  her,  day  by  day,  and  to  whom  she  only 
gives  her  livery  of  rags.  You  may  distinguish 
at  a  glance  one  of  these  habitues  of  the  place, 
shabby  in  attire,  at  times  almost  squalid,  plunged 
j  up  to  the  ears  in  volumes  as  rusty  and  ancient 
as  himself.  At  times  he  is  seen  timidly  propiti- 
ating some  attendant  with  small  fragments  of 
whispering  conversation,  listened  to  condescend- 
ingly, like  the  purring  of  a  cat  which  has  be- 
come a  harmless  household  appendage.  Per- 
haps the  poor  old  student  has-  come  daily  year 
after  year,  growing  ever  older  and  shabbier, 
until  at  last  the  attendants  miss  him  for  a  week. 
One  of  them  perhaps  sees  in  the  papers  a  death, 
or  some  mournful  coroner's  inquest ;  and  recol- 
lecting the  name,  identifies  it  as  that  of  the  old 
book-worm.  Then  probably  there  is  a  few, 
minutes'  confab  by  the  ticket-keeper's  den  at 
the  end  of  the  rooms — one  or  two  of  the  regular 
frequenters  are  told  of  the  fact,  and  utter  a 
careless  "Poor  old  fellow,  he  seemed  wearing 
out!" — the  books  put  by  for  his  daily  use  are 
silently  replaced,  and  one  more  atom  of  dis- 
appointed humanity  is  blotted  from  the  living 
world. 

This  illustrative  exordium  may  be  consider- 
ed as  heralding  the  advent  of  a  new  Museumite 
in  the  person  of  Philip  Wychnor.  Speculations 
something  like  the  foregoing  occupied  him  dur- 
ing the  time  that  he  was  awaiting  the  asked-for 
book,  and  trying  to  discover  among  the  thick- 
set plantation  of  heads — brown,  black,  fair,  red, 
and  gray— young,  old,  ugly,  handsome,  patri- 
cian, and  plebeian — the  identical  cranium  of  his 
new  acquaintance,  David  Drvsdale.  First,  he 
thought  of  promenading  the  long  alleys,  and 
peering  over  every  table,  but  this  sort  of  run- 
ning the  gauntlet  was  too  much  for  his  nerves 
So,  inquiring  of  the  head  attendant — the  tute 
lary  Lar  of  the  place,  who  knew  every  body 
and  he.lped  every  body — a  sort  of  literary  lion's- 
provider,  with  good-nature  as  unfailing  and  uni- 
versal as  his  information — Philip  soon  learned 
the  whereabouts  of  old  Drysdale. 

There  he  was,  with  his  bald  head  peering 
from  a  semicircle  of  most  formidable  books ; 
lookiiig  by  the  daylight  a  little  older  and  a  little  \ 
more  rusty  in  attire.  He  greeted  his  young 
friend  with  a  pleased  look,  and  began  to  talk  in 
the  customary  Museum  undertone.  It  was  a 
drowsy  murmur,  such  as  a  poet  would  liken  to 


THE  OGTLVIES. 


the  distant  humming  of  the  Hybla  bees ;  and 
perhaps  the  simile  is  not  inapt  with  regard  to 
:his  curious  literary  hive. 

"  Glad  to  see  you  here,  my  young  friend — 
very  glad — shows  you're  in  earnest,"  said  Drys- 
dale.  "Ever  been  here  before?" 

Philip  answered  in  the  negative. 

"  Isn't  it  a  fine  place — a  grand  place  ?  Fancy 
miles  of  books,  stratum  upon  stratum — what  a 
glorious  literary  formation  !"  Excuse  me,"  he 
added,  smiling,  "  but  I've  been  reading  geology 
all  the  morning,  and  then  I  always  catch  my- 
self '•talking  shop,'  as  some  would  elegantly 
express  it  You  don't  study  the  science,  I  be- 
lieve?" 

"  No,"  said  Philip  ;  "  the  earth's  beautiful 
outside  is  enough  for  me.  I  never  wished  to 
dive  beneath  it." 

"Mistaken  there,  my  good  sir,"  answered  the 
Other,  in  a  tone  of  gentle  reproof;  "you  should 
try  to  learn  a  little  of  every  thing.  I  always 
do.  When  I  hear  of  any  science  or  study,  I 
feel  quite  uncomfortable  until  I  have  mastered 
it,  or,  at  least,  know  enough  of  it  to  form  a 
judgment  on  the  remainder.  You  would  be 
astonished  at  the  heterogeneous  mass  I  have 
here" — here,  as  usual,  he  pointed  to  his  fore- 
head— "and  I'm  still  working  on.  Indeed,  I 
should  feel  something  like  Alexander  the  Great 
at  the  world's  end,  if  I  thought  there  were  no 


Drysdale  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Ah,  yes ! 
Much  good  may  it  do  them!  Some  of  them 
seem  to  work  hard  enough,  poor  little  souls ! 
but  they  had  far  better  be  at  home  making  pud- 
dings. 1  don't  like  learned  women  in  general ; 
— not  that  I  mean  women  of  intellect  and  feel- 
ing, regular  workers  in  literature ;  but  small 
philosophers  in  petticoats,  just  dipping  their 
pretty  feet  into  the  sciences,  and  talking  as  if  they 
had  taken  the  whole  bath.  Here's  one  of  them ! ' ' 
added  the  old  gentleman,  with  visible  discom- 
fiture as  a  diminutive  dame  in  all  the  grace  of 
fashionable  costume  floated  up  the  center-aisle, 
we  were  about  to  write,  and  may  still  do  so, 
considering  what  a  great  temple  of  literature  we 
are  now  describing. 

"  Ah,  Drysdale  !  you  are  just  the  very  person 
I  want,"  lisped  the  new  comer;  and  Philip  at 
once  recognized  both  face  and  voice  as  belong- 
ing to  the  lady  he  had  once  glanced  at  in  Mr. 
Pennythorne's  hall.  He  began  to  notice  with 
some  curiosity  the  well-known  Mrs.  Lancaster. 
Rather  surprised  was  he  to  find  so  stylish  a 
dame  on  terms  of  condescending  familiarity 
with  old  David  Drysdale.  But  Philip  did  not 
know  that  lion-hunters  often  prefer  for  their 
menageries  the  most  rugged  and  eccentric  ani- 
mals of  that  royal  breed.  Besides,  the  shabbi- 
ness  and  singularities  of  the  queer-looking  philos- 
opher were  tolerated  every  where,  even  among 


more  sciences  for  me  to  conquer.     But  that  is  J  the  elegant  clique  who  honored   literature  by 

nnfr    HlmlTr   "    coir)    tho    v*l»ilriorknliQY«     xx-M+Vi    an     oil*   r»f*       tVioii*  Y\Q  tfnriarrn 


not  likely,"  said  the  philosopher,  with  an  air  of 
great  consolation,  as  he  eyed  affectionately  the 
pile  of  books  that  surrounded  him. 

Philip,  fearful  of  interrupting  his  work,  said  so. 


"  Bless  you,  no  ! 
rectly." 


I  can  settle  to  it  again  di- 


"This  would  seem  a  capital  place  for  the 
study  of  human  nature,"  observed  Philip;  "I 
never  saw  such  a  collection  of  odd  people;" 
and  then  he  checked  himself,  and  colored  with 
sensitive  apprehension,  on  account  of  his  com- 


panion. 

But  Drysdale  only  laughed. 


"Yes,  I  believe 


we  are  an  odd  set — we  don't  care  at  all  for  our 
outward  man.  There  lies  the  difference  be- 
tween your  man  of  science,  the  regular  old 
bookworm,  and  your  man  of  refined  genius — a 
poet,  for  instance.  Their  minds  may  be  equal- 

¥  great,  but  are  of  a  totally  opposite  character, 
he  latter  sort  has  the  best  of  it,  for  with  him 
the  soul  has  greater  influence  over  the  body.  I 
never  knew  a  genius  yet — mind  you,  I  use  the 
word  in  its  largest  sense — who  did  not  carry 
about  with  him,  either  in  face  or  person,  or  in  a 
certain  inexplicable  grace  of  manner,  the  patent 
of  nobility  which  Heaven  has  bestowed  upon 
him ;  while  the  hard-working  grubbers  in  sci- 
ence and  acquired  learning  often  find  the  mud 
sticking  to  them !  Their  pursuits  are  too  much 
of  this  world  to  let  them  soar  like  those  light- 
winged  fellows.  One  class  is  the  quicksilver  of 
earth — the  other,  its  plain,  useful  iron.  You 
couldn't  do  well  without  either,  I  fancy — eh?" 

And  the  old  philosopher  rubbed  his  hands, 
and  pausing  in  his  oration,  sat  balano'ng  himself 
on  the  edge  of  one  of  those  comfortable  chairs 
with  which  a  benign  government  indulges  Mu- 
seum-frequenters. Philip,  much  amused,  tried 
to  draw  the  conversation  into  its  original  channel. 

"  You  have  a  few  fair  students  also ;  I  see  a 
sprinkling  of  bonnets  here  and  there." 


their  patronage. 

Philip  Wychnor  was  too  courteous  to  gratify 
his  curiosity  by  much  open  observation,  still  he 
could  not  but  be  amused  by  the  visit  of  this  fair 
literary  devotee.  The  excellent  presiding  Lar 
before  mentioned,  who  was  especially  the  good 
genius  of  feminine  bookworms,  found  himself 
perpetually  engaged  in  foraging  out  ponderous 
volumes.  These  she  carelessly  turned  over — 
to  the  imminent  peril  of  her  delicate  lemon-col- 
ored gloves — and  then  as  carelessly  threw  them 
aside.  One  or  two  quiet,  elderly  readers,  at 
the  other  side  of  the  table,  had  their  studies 
grievously  interrupted  by  the  quick,  sharp 
voice;  and  no  doubt,  devoutly  wished  all  fe- 
male literati,  and  this  one  especially,  in  some 
distant  paradise  of  fools,  not  particularly  speci- 
fied. At  last  Mrs.  Lancaster  began  to  look 
about  her,  and  talk  in  an  under-tone  to  David 
Drysdale.  Wychnor  thought  it  was  some  literary 
secret,  and  with  quite  needless  delicacy  made 
for  himself  an  errand  to  the  catalogue-stand. 

Now  Mrs.  Lancaster,  besides  her  widely  pro- 
fessed admiration  for  literature,  had  a  slight 
mania  for  art,  as  regards  its  developments  in 
physical  beauty ;  at  least,  so  she  said ;  and  was 
forever  hunting  up  models  of  perfection  where- 
with to  fill 'her  drawing-rooms.  She  had  been 
watching  for  some  time  Philip's  exquisitely- 
marked  profile,  as  he  stooped  over  his  book,  and 
now  inquired — 

"  By-the-by,  Drysdale" — (Mrs.  Lancaster  af- 
fected, in  common  with  many  literary  ladies, 
the  disagreeable  and  mannish  custom  of  address- 
ing her  male  acquaintance  without  the  Mr.) 
"  By-the-by,  Drysdale,  who  is  that  clever-look- 
ing, handsome  youth?  He  was  talking  to  you 
when  I  came  in." 

With  all  his  unworldliness,  old  David  had  a 
great  deal  of  shrewdness,  and  more  with  regard 
to  other  people's  anVrs  than  his  own.  He  knew 


THE  OGTLVIES. 


how  almost  impossible  it  is  for  a  literary  man  to 
work  his  way  without  entering  into  the  general 
society  of  the  fraternity,  and  making  personal 
interests,  which  materially  aid  his  fortune, 
though  it  is  his  own  fault  if  he  suffer  them  to 
compromise  his  independence.  Therefore  Drys- 
dale  saw  at  once  what  an  advantage  it  would 
be  to  Wychnor  to  gain  admission  into  Mrs.  Lan- 
caster's clever  circle.  Immediately  he  set  to 
work  to  clear  the  way,  by  judicious  commend- 
ations. 

"  Really,  is  he  so  very  talented  ?  I  knew  I 
was  right,  for  my  observation  never  fails!"  ex- 
claimed the  gratified  lady.  And  she  began  to 
dilate  anatomically  upon  Philip's  face  and  skull, 
in  order  to  prove  her  full  acquaintance  with  La- 
vater  and  Gall.  Oid  Drysdale  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  listened.  He  never  wasted  words 
on  persons  of  Mrs.  Lancaster's  stamp — "  prefer- 
ring,"  as  he  often  said,  "  to  let  himself  be  pelted 
with  swine's  chaff,  rather  than  cast  his  own 
pearls  before  them." 

However,  as  soon  as  Philip  returned  to  the 
table  he  performed  the  introduction  for  which 
the  mistress  of  Pittville  Lodge  was  so  anxious. 
Wychnor  was  agreeably  surprised  to  find  him- 
self graciously  invited  to  accompany  her  "  ex- 
cellent friend  Drysdale"  to  join  the  constellation 
of  literary  stars  that  were  to  illuminate  the 
Lodge  with  their  presence  on  the  identical  17th. 

"By  the  by,  Drysdale,"  continued  the  lady, 
"  you  who  have  such  a  fancy  for  youthful  gen- 
iuses will  meet  one  that  night — a  Miss  Katharine 
Ogilvie."  Here  Philip's  heart  beat  quicker — 
it  always  did  so  at  the  name  of  Ogilvie.  Mrs. 
Lancaster  went  on.  "  She  is  wonderfully  clever, 
and  so  lovely  ! — quite  a  Corinne  at  nineteen.  I 
never  was  more  surprised  than  when  I  met  her 
last  week ;  for,  three  years  ago,  I  was  staying 
at  her  father's,  Sir  Robert  Ogilvie  of  Summer- 
wood  Park,  and  she  seemed  the  most  ordinary 
little  girl  imaginable." 

"  Humph !  dare  say  sne  is  the  same  now. 
Mrs.  Lancaster's  swans  are  always  geese," 
muttered  Drysdale,  in  an  aside. 

Philip's  heart  beat  quicker  than  ever,  for  he 
remembered  Eleanor's  Christmas  visit,  and  won- 
dered whether  by  any  chance  she  had  then 
spoken  of  him  to  Mrs.  Lancaster.  He  did  not 
know  that  the  name  which  lies  deepest  in  a 
woman's  heart  is  the  last  which  is  likely  to  rise 
to  her  lips.  But  so  it  was,  that  except  the 
chance  allusion  of  Hugh,  Philip  Wychnor  had 
not  once  been  mentioned  at  Summerwood. 

Mrs.  Lancaster,  as  she  prepared  to  depart, 
turned  from  the  imperturbable  old  philosopher 
to  her  new  acquaintance.  "  I  am  sure  a  man 
of  genius  like  yourself,  Mr.  Wychnor,  will  be 
delighted  with  my  young  improvisatrice,  as  I 
call  her ;  indeed,  she  is  quite  an  ideal  of  romance. 
Only  be  sure  you  do  not  fall  in  love  with  her, 
for  people  say  she  is  engaged  to  a  cousin  of 
hers,  who  is  always  at  Summerwood.  Apropos, 
Drysdale,  in  this  said  Christmas  visit  young 
Paul  Lynedon  accompanied  us.  You  know 
him — indeed,  you  know  every  body.  He  has 
not  written  to  me  this  long  while.  What  has 
become  of  him?" 

"  Can't  say,  and  don't  care,"  replied  the  old 
man,  rathe-r  gruffly,  for  his  patience  was  getting 
exhausted. 

"  You  never  chanced  to  meet  Paul  Lynedon, 


Mr.  Wychnor?"  •  Philip  made  a  negative  motion 
of  the  head,  and  the  voluble  lady  continued. 
"  You  would  have  exactly  suited  each  other — 
he  was:«uch  a  charming  creature — so  full  of 
talent.  But  I  must  not  stay  chattering  here. 
Adieu  !  au  revoir."  And  Mrs.  Lancaster  evan- 
ished gracefully  from  the  reading-room. 

David  Drysdale  began  to  breathe  freely,  and 
shook  himself  with  an  air  of  great  relief,  some- 
what after  the  fashion  of  an  old  house-dog  round 
whose  nose  a  troublesome  fly  has  been  buzzing. 
Then  he  settled  down  among  his  books  in  a 
silence  which  Philip  did  not  feel  inclined  to 
interrupt. 

Mrs.  Lancaster's  idle  talk  had  stirred  a  few 
conflicting  thoughts  in  the  young  man's  bosom. 
With  a  natural  curiosity,  he  looked  forward  to 
seeing  this  young  cousin  of  Eleanor's,  who,  as 
report  said,  was  likely  to  become  her  sister  too. 
Forgetting  how  false  rumor  somtimes  is,  and 

how  complete  was  the  seclusion  of  L ,  he 

felt  surprised — almost  vexed — that  his  affianced 
had  not  alluded  to  the  fact.  He  wondered  also 
that  she  had  never  made  mention  of  Mrs.  Lan- 
caster, or  of  this  fascinating  Paul  Lynedon, 
whose  name  now  reached  him  for  the  first  time. 

It  might  have  been  an  error  in  judgment,  and 
yet  it  was  from  a  noble  and  truly  feminine  del- 
icacy, that  Eleanor  never  told  her  betrothed 
of  the  love  she  had  refused.  She  had  none  of 
that  contemptible  vanity  which  would  fain  carry 
about  as  a  trophy  a  string  of  trampled  and 
broken  hearts,  ready  to  flourish  them  before  the 
eyes  of  the  accepted  lover,  should  the  warning 
be  required.  Even  amidst  her  own  happiness 
she  had  sighed  over  the  wound  she  gave,  and 
kept  the  knowledge  of  that  rejected  love  sacred 
from  all.  as  every  generous,  delicate-minded 
woman  will.  But  her  silence  now  aroused 
more  than  one  doubt  in  the  mind  of  Philip 
Wychnor.  This  was  wrong  ;  he  knew  it,  too  j 
yet,  being  restless  and  uneasy,  framed  excuses 
for  this  idle  jealousy  over  every  action  of  his 
beloved  Eleanor.  But  Philip  Wychnor  was  a 
man,  after  all,  and  no  man  living  ever  can  trust 
as  a  woman  does. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

My  mind  misgives 

Some  consequence,  yet  hanging  in  the  stars 
Will  bitterly  begin  its  fearful  date 
From  this  night's  revels.  SIIAKSPEA.RK. 

Each  word  gwam  in  on  my  brain 
With  a  dim,  dilating  pain, 

Till  it  burst 

—I  fell— flooded  with  a  Dark 

In  the  silence  of  a  swoon. 
When  I  rose,  still  cold  and  stark, 

There  was  night ! 

E.  B.  BROWNING. 

NOTHING  could  be  better  arranged  than  Mrs, 
Lancaster's  soirees.  She  collected  and  grouped 
her  guests  as  artistically  as  a  fashionable  bou- 
quetiere  disposes  her  flowers.  They  were  not  all 
literary  people — far  from  it :  the  hostess  was  too 
well  acquainted  with  the  idiosyncracies  and  pe- 
culiarities of  the  fraternity  to  risk  any  such  het- 
erogeneous commixture.  She  adroitly  sprinkled 
here  and  there  a  few  of  those  fair,  scentless 
blossoms — evening-party  demoiselles — who  might 
be  considered  as  hired  only  for  the  night,  like 


THE  OGILVIES. 


71 


ihe  flowers  on  the  staircase,  to  adorn  the  man- 
sion. And  then,  amid  the  gay  cluster  of  ordinary 
humanities,  might  be  distinguished  some  homely- 
iuoking  plant,  whose  pungent  aroma  nevertheless 
diffused  itself  throughout  the  whole  parterre — 
tfye  poet  of  Nature's  making,  who  brought  into 
refined  saloons  all  the  freshness,  and  a  great 
deal  of  the  mud,  from  the  clods  among  which 
ne  was  born.  There,  too,  was  the  dandy  author, 
who,  when  deigning  to  handle  the  pen,  considered 
literature  much  the  obliged  party;  the  keen, 
sarcastic  wit,  the  porcupine  of  society,  whom 
every  body  hated,  yet  treated  with  respect  for 
fear  of  his  quills,  and  the  timid  aspirant,  who 
sat  in  a  corner,  and  watched  the  scene  with 
reverent  and  somewhat  fearful  eyes.  All  these 
were  ingeniously  amalgamated,  so  as  to  form 
the  very  perfection  of  reunions.  Nobody  felt 
obliged  to  "  talk  blue ;"  and  while  the  heavy 
conversationalists  had  full  play  in  snug  corners, 
there  were  interludes  of  both  dancing  and  music 
to  lighten  the  hearts  and  heels  of  the  rest. 

Philip  Wychnor  watched  this  moving  pano- 
rama with  considerable  interest.  He  had  never 
been  much  in  society,  and  all  was  novel  to  him. 
David  Drysdale,  who  kept  close  beside  him,  took 
quite  a  child-like  pleasure  in  witnessing  the 
amusement  of  his  young  acquaintance,  and  in 
pointing  out  to  him  the  various  concomitants 
which  made  up  the  soiret. 

"  There  stand  the  Merry-go-rounds,"  said  he, 
pointing  to  a  curiously-mingled  group,  in  which 
the  most  prominent  were  a  very  big  man  and  a 
very  little  one.  "  They  all  belong  to  the  Merry- 
go-round  paper — you  may  know  that  by  their 
talk,  which  comprises  a  whole  artillery  of  fun 
and  jest.  But  they  have  a  character  for  wit  to 
keep  up,  and  must  do  it,  well  or  ill,  like  the 
kings'  fools  of  old." 

"Amateur  assumers  of  the  cap  and  bells,  I 
presume?"  observed  Philip,  smiling. 

"  Just  so ;  but  not  all  of  them.  Look  at  that 
man  to  whom  every  body  listens  whenever  he 
opens  his  lips,  as  though  he  dropped  from  them 
pearls  and  diamonds.  He  buzzes  about  like  a 
wasp,  and  wherever  he  settles  for  a  minute,  it  is 
nine  chances  to  one  that  he  does  not  leave  a  sting 
behind.  But  he  is  a  great  fellow,  nevertheless 
— brimming  over  with  wit;  his  tongue  and 
his  pen  are  like  lancets ;  and  if  they  do  bleed 
Dame  Society  pretty  freely,  it  is  most  frequently 
to  keep  down  the  lady's  own  plethora,  and  re- 
move all  bad  humors." 

"  Who  is  that  gay  butterfly  of  a  young  man, 
who  .seems  to  set  himself  in  opposition  to  your 
wasp?"  inquired  Philip.  "He  keeps  up  an  in- 
cessant rattle  of  small  witticisms,  chiefly  directed 
to  the  ladies,  with  whom  he  appears  quite  a  pet." 

"  Did  you  ever  know  true  coin  that  had  not 
its  counterfeit  ?"  said  Drysdale.  "  He  is  a  small 
mimic  of  the  other — a  mushroom  wit,  sprung  up 
in  a  night  out  of  the  very  refuse-bed  of  literature. 
He  belongs  to  the  Young  England  School  of 
authorship — impudent  jesters  who  turn  the  most 
earnest  things  of  life  into  farce — who  would 
parody  Milton,  and  write  a  comic  history  of  the 
Bible. 

'  I'd  put  in  every  honest  hand  a  whip,   •% 
To  lash  the  rascals  naked  through  the  world,' " 

eried  worthy  old  David,  with  an  energy  that, 
while  it  made  Philip  smile,  touched  him  deeply. 
That  one  grain  of  true  earnestness  seemed  to 


purify  the  Mnole  heaitless,  worldly  mass  aroand 
him.  The  young  man  grew  stronger  in  heart 
and  purpose  every  hour  of  his  association  with 
Drysdale. 

"  There  are  two  of  another  set.  You  will  find 
all  this  literary  world  divided  into  sets,"  observed 
the  old  philosopher,  glancing  toward  a  couple 
who  were  talking  together  a  little  aloof  from 
the  rest. 

"  You  mean  that  patriarchal  old  man,  with  a 
grand,  massive  head,  and  the  younger  one,  with 
hair  parted  in  the  center,  and  a  face  that  re- 
minds one  of  Raphael's  angels  ?  I  have  been 
watching  them  some  time — they  talk  so  earnest- 
ly, and  are  such  a  picturesque  couple  to  look  at ; 
only  I  don't  like  that  outre  style  of  dress  "  said 
Philip. 

"Yet  there  is  a  great  deal  of  good  in  them, 
for  all  that,"  answered  his  companion;  "they 
belong  to  the  Progress  movement — people  sin- 
cere and  earnest  in  their  way,  only  they  are 
ever  trying  to  move  the  world  with  their  own 
small  Archimedean  lever — rather  a  vain  task. 
Now,  though  I  hold  that  every  man  ought  quietly 
to  put  his  shoulder  to  the  wheel,  and  give  society 
a  shove  onward,  as  far  as  he  can  in  his  petty 
life-time,  yet  I  don't  like  much  talking  about  it. 
With  these  Progress  people  it  is  often  '  great  cry 
and  little  wool.'  They  are  always  bemoaning 
with  Hamlet,  that 

*  The  time  is  out  of  joint,' 

but  rarely  attempt  to  *  set  it  right.'  " 

"I  agree  with  you,"  said  Philip;  "I  believe 
less  in  universal  than  individual  movements.  If 
every  man  began  the  work  of  reformation  in  him- 
self first,  and  afterward  in  his  own  circle,  there 
would  be  no  need  of  public  revolutions  at  all. 
To  use  your  own  favorite  system  of  symboliza- 
tion,  Mr.  Drysdale,"  continued  the  young  man, 
with  a  good-humored  smile,  "I  think  that  quietly 
undermining  a  rock  is  far  better  than  blowing  it 
up  with  gunpowder,  because  in  the  latter  case 
you  never  know  how  far  the  work  of  destruction 
may  extend,  and  you  run  a  chance  of  being 
knocked  on  the  head  by  the  fragments." 

Drysdale  patted  his  young  friend  on  the  arm, 
with  an  air  of  gratified  approval.  "  That's  right 
— quite  right!  learn  to  think  for  yourself,  and 
don't  be  afraid  of  speaking  what  you  think,  my 
dear  boy — excuse  me  for  calling  you  so,  but  you 
are  a  boy  to  me." 

Philip  was  about  to  express  his  sincere  pleas- 
ure in  this  new  friendship  of  theirs,  when  Mrs. 
Lancaster  glided  through  the  still  increasing 
crowd. 

"  Drysdale,  where  are  you  ?  Here  in  a  corner ! 
Fie,  fie !  when  every  one  wants  to  talk  to  you." 

"  Perhaps  I  can  not  quite  return  the  compli- 
ment, ma'am,"  answered  the  old  philosopher, 
rather  abruptly,  for  if  he  had  any  cynical  pro- 
pensities, they  were  always  drawn  out  by  the 
flippant  tongue  of  Mrs.  Lancaster. 

"  Now  really,  that's  too  bad  !  What  a  nice, 
good,  disagreeable,  comical  creature  you  are ! 
Here  is  your  old  acquaintance,  Mr.  Pennythorne, 
asking  for  you." 

And  as  she  spoke,  the  individual  alluded  to 
made  his  appearance,  shook  hands  with  Drysdale, 
and  then  turning  round,  caught  sight  of  Philip 
Wychnor.  A  slight  elevation  of  the  eyebrows 
marked  Mr.  Pennythorne's  extreme  astonish- 


THE  OdlLVIES. 


72 

ment,  but  he  was  too  much  a  man  of  the  world 
to  seem  discomposed  by  any  thing.  He  hopped 
up  to  Philip  with  a  cordial  greeting. 

"My  dear  young  friend— -delighted  to  meet 
you  so  unexpectedly,  and  in  such  charming 
society  too.  And  so  you  know  that  excellent 
old  Drysdale  :  how  surprising  !  how  pleasant !" 
And  he  bustled  away  to  another  part  of  the 

room,  wondering  within  himself  what  the 

(Mr.  Pennythorne's  expletives  were  always  con- 
fined to  mere  thoughts)  brought  the  young  ras- 
cal there. 

"  You  must  come  with  me,  Drysdale,"  pursued 
Mrs.  Lancaster,  laying  her  tiny  white-gloved 
hand  on  the  rough  coat-sleeve  of  the  shaggy- 
looking  old  philosopher,  who  looked  in  that  gay 
assemblage  something  like  the  dog  Diogenes 
amidst  the  train  of  canine  Alexanders  in  Land- 
seer's  picture ;  "  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  my 
young  Corinne — my  improvisatrice." 

But  Drysdale  still  hung  back.  He  had  an  un  • 
pleasant  recollection  of  innumerable  dainty  MSS. 
and  scores  of  young-ladyish  poems  with  which 
he  had  been  deluged  in  consequence  of  doing 
the  civil  to  Mrs.  Lancaster's  literary  protegees. 

"  It  is  I  who  ought  to  be  introduced  to  Mr. 
Drysdale,"  said  a  sweet  young  voice  behind; 
and  the  old  man  could  not  resist  either  the  voice 
or  the  bewitching  smile  that  adorned  the  lips  | 
through  which  it  passed. 

Philip  turned  gently  round,  and  looked  at 
Katharine  Ogilvie.  She  was  indeed  dazzlingly 
beautiful — the  more  so  perhaps  from  the  ex- 
treme simplicity  of  her  white  dress,  which  con- 
trasted strongly  with  the  be-laced  and  be-furbe- 
lowed  throng  around.  Her  small,  Greek-shaped 
head  had  no  ornament  but  the  magnificent  purple- 
black  hair,  which  was  gathered  up  in  a  knot  be- 
hind, giving  to  her  classic  features  a  character 
more  classic  still.  But  there  was  no  impassive 
marble  beauty  about  the  face .  It  was  all  woman 
— the  lips  now  dimpling  with  smiles,  now  trem- 
bling with  ill  concealed  emotion  as  some  sudden 
thought  passed  through  her  mind.  How  different 
from  the  shy  girl  who,  years  before,  had  moved 
timidly  amidst  the  same  scene,  in  the  same 
place ! 

Katharine  felt  it  so ;  and  her  heart  was  full — 
running  over  with  the  delicious  memories  that 
every  moment  renewed,  and  dilating  w^th  a  joy- 
ful pride  as  she  compared  the  present  with  the 
past.  She  felt  she  was  beautiful — she  saw  how 
every  eye  followed  her  admiringly;  she  knew 
that  even  over  that  gay  and  gifted  circle  the 
spell  of  her  talents  and  her  fascinations  was  cast. 
She  gloried  in  the  knowledge. 

"He  would  not  be  ashamed  of  me  now,"  she 
murmured  to  herself  with  a  proud,  happy  smile. 
"  No ;  when  he  comes  again  he  will  find  Kath- 
arine not  unworthy,  even  of  him." 

And  the  thought  kindled  *  new  luster  in  her 
eyes,  and  lent  an  unwonted  softness  to  every  tone 
of  her  melodious  voice.  How  happy  she  was! 
nay,  she  seemed  to  cast  eveiy  where  around  her 
an  atmosphere  of  gentle  gladness.  She  inclined 
particularly  toward  old  David  Drysdale ;  and  he, 
on  his  part,  thawed  into  positive  enthusiasm 
beneath  the  sunshine  of  her  influence. 

"I  wished  much  to  see  you,  Mr.  Drysdale," 
she  said  at  last,  though  somewhat  timidly,  when 
the  conversation  with  him  had  grown  into  quite 
a  friendly  chat.  "  I  have  heard  of  you  before, 


from — from  an  old  acquaintance  of  yours.''  aiirt 
the  quick  color  rose  slightly  in  her  cluck . 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  I  am  really  honored — 
delighted!"  answered  the  old  man,  charmed 
almost  into  compliment,  "  Who  could  it  be  ?" 

Katharine's  lips  trembled  while  they  framed 
the  name  of  Paul  Lynedon. 

"Lynedon — Ah !  I  remember  him — fine  fellow 
to  look  at,  with  a  great  deal  in  him.  But  ours 
was  a  very  slight  acquaintance.  I  have  heard 
nothing  of  him  since  he  went  abroad.  Eve 
been  abroad,  Miss  Ogilvie?"  added  Drysdale, 
unconsciously  turning  the  conversation ;  at  which 
Katharine  felt  a  vague  disappointment,  for  it 
was  pleasant  even  to  hear  a  stranger  utter  the 
name  that  was  the  music  of  her  heart. 

"No!"  she  replied.  "I  know  scarcely  any 
thing  of  the  world  except  from  books." 

"And  perhaps  the  knowledge  thus  gained  is 
the  best,  after  all ;  at  least  so  says  my  young 
friend  Philip  Wychnor  here,"  said  Drysdale, 
good-naturedly  turning  to  where  his  new  favor- 
ite sat  aloof.  Philip  was  trying  to  alleviate  his 
rather  dull  position  with  looking  over  various 
books. 

"Philip  Wychnor!"  echoed  Katharine,  sud- 
denly recollecting  the  name.  It  caught  the 
owner's  ear,  and  the  eyes  of  the  two  young 
people  met.  "  This  must  be  Eleanor's  friend ; 
there  can  not  be  two  Philip  Wychnors,"  she  said 
to  herself;  and  with  womanly  tact  and  kindliness, 
seeing  he  was  a  stranger,  she  tried  to  break  the 
awkwardness  of  his  position,  and  bring  him  into 
the  conversation. 

"  I  believe  you  are  not  quite  unknown  to  me, 
Mr.  Wychnor,"  said  Katharine,  as  Philip — 
answering  Drysdale' s  summons — bowed  in  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  introduction.  "  Are  you 
not  a  friend  of  my  two  cousins  Hugh  and  Eleanoi 
Ogilvie?" 

Philip  answered  "  Yes."  He  did  not  use  the 
ridiculous  form,  "I  have  that  honor,"  &o. 

Katharine  thought  his  agitation  spi  *ng  from 
the  shyness  of  one  unused  to  society  ^  women 
have  so  much  more  self-possession  than  men. 
She  tried  to  re-assure  him  by  continuing  to  talk. 
"I  am  quite  delighted  to  meet  you,"  and  she 
offered  her  hand  with  a  graceful  frankness. 
"  I  remember  perfectly  how  warmly  my  cousins 
spoke  of  you — Eleanor  especially.  What  a  dear 
sweet  girl  she  is — is  she  not  ?"  she  added  warm- 
ly; and  was  rather  surprised  when  Philip  an- 
swered, in  a  grave,  constrained  tone — 

"There  is  no  lady  I  respect  more  than  Miss 
Eleanor  Ogilvie.  And  her  brother — how  is  he  ?" 
continued  Wychnor,  not  daring  to  trust  his  voice 
with  a  more  direct  question. 

"  Hugh  is  quite  well,  I  believe — I  hope — he 
left  Summerwood  some  days  since,"  said  Kath- 
arine, while  a  shadow  of  annoyance  passed  over 
her  face,  and  the  clear  brow  was  contracted  for 
a  moment. 

"To  join  his  sister,  I  conclude?"  was  the 
tremulous  question  of  the  lover. 

"  Oh,  no !  Eleanor  is  gone  abroad,  you  know." 

"Gone  abroad?" 

"Yes,  to  Naples,  with  Mrs.  Breynton,  hei 
friend,  and  your  annt^is  she  not  ?  I  thought  of 
course  you  were  aware  of  the  fact." 

Philip  felt  sick  at  heart ;  muttering  some  un« 
connected  words,  he  turned  to  look  for  Drysdale, 
for  he  had  no  power  to  sustain  the  cop1  ersatioa. 


THE  OGILVIES. 


73 


However,  the  old  man  was  gone.  At  another 
time  Katharine's  curiosity  and  sympathy  would 
have  been  excited ;  but  now  her  attention  was 
drawn  away  from  him  by  a  chance  word — one 
that,  whenever  she  heard  it,  pierced,  with  a 
clear,  trumpet-tone  through  the  buzz  of  conver- 
sation— the  name  of  Paul  Lynedon. 

Katharine  and  Philip  chanced  to  sit  together 
on  one  cf  those  round  ottomans  which  seem 
made  for  double  tete-a-tetes ;  and  behind  them 
were  a  lady  and  gentleman  chatting  merrily. 

"Mr.  Lynedon!"  repeated  the  latter.  "So, 
my  dear  Miss  Trevor,  you  really  know  my  ex- 
cellent friend  Paul  Lynedon." 

"  I  should  rather  say  1  knew  him — since  it  is 
several  years  since  we  met.  He  went  on  the 
continent,  I  believe  ?  A  sudden  departure,  was 
it  not,  Dr.  Saville  ?" 

"  Hem !  my  dear  madam,  a  little  mystery 
that  I  would  not  mention  to  any  one  but  to  you, 
who  were  his  particular  friend.  In  fact,  poor 
Lynedon  was  in  love." 

"You  don't  say  so!" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  he  told  me  all  about  it  at  the  time 
— long  attachment — lovers'  quarrel,  but  of  course 
made  up  directly,  as  my  Lizzie — that  is.  Mrs. 
Doctor  Saville — said  it  would  be." 

"  'All's  well  that  ends  well !'  Really  I  am 
quite  glad  of  it,  for  I  had  a  very  great  regard 
for  Mr.  Lynedon,"  said  Miss  Trevor,  cordially. 
"Are  they  married  yet?" 

"  No ;  but  I  have  every  reason  to  believe  the 
event  will  soon  take  place,  for  I  saw  in  yester- 
day's paper  the  lady's  name  as  one  of  the  visit- 
ants in  a  certain  Italian  town — the  very  same 
from  whence  Lynedon's  last  letter  was  dated. 
Sly  fellow  ! — he  writes'  so  full  of  happiness.  I 
think  I  have  the  letter  in  my  pocket  now — if  I 
did  not  send  it  home  this  morning  to  Lizzie. 
No!  here  it  is." 

Every  word  of  this  mixture  of  truth  and  false- 
hood fell  on  the  stunned  ear  of  Katharine  Ogilvie. 
Yet  she  sat  immovable,  her  fingers  still  turning 
over  the  book  on  her  lap,  her  lips  still  fixed  in 
the  courteous  smile  of  attention.  Once  only  her 
eyes  wandered,  with  an  air  of  half-frenzied  in- 
credulousness,  over  the  letter  which  Dr.  Saville 
held.  It  was  the  same  hand — his  hand  !  Pas- 
sionate in  all  her  impulses,  she  drank  in,  un- 
doubting,  the  horrible  truth.  Her  heart  died 
within  her,  and  was  turned  to  stone. 

The  next  moment  Dr.  Saville  moved  to  make 
way  for  Mrs.  Lancaster,  who  fluttered  up,  all 
empressement,  and  entreated  her  "sweet  Kath- 
arine" to  sing. 

Katharine  rose,  and  crossed  the  room  with  a 
steady  footstep.  Philip  Wychnor,  brooding  over 
his  own  troubled  thoughts,  felt  relieved  when 
her  departure  caused  a  cessation  in  the  idle  talk, 
to  which  he  had  listened  merely  from  a  passing 
curiosity  concerning  Paul  Lynedon.  But  the 
conversation  was  immediately  renewed. 

"  What  a  lovely  girl  that  is,  and  with  what 
intense  feeling  she  sings  !"  observed  a  gentle- 
man to  Miss  Trevor,  as  Katherine's  voice  came 
from  the  inner  room,  clear,  full,  and  pure,  with- 
out one  tremulous  tone. 

"  Yes ;  she  is  a  sweet  creature — a  Miss  Kath- 
arine Ogilvie." 

"  OgUvie — how  singular  !  Has  she  any  sis- 
ters?" inquired  Dr.  Seville,  much  surprised. 

"No,  I  believe  not.     Why  do  you  ask  ?" 


"  Because  'the  name  of  Paul  Lynedon^  love 
was  Ogilvie — Eleanor  Ogilvie." 

There  was  a  movement  of  the  fashionable 
crowd,  as  one  of  the  guests  hastily  wound  his 
way  through,  and  passed  out  of  the  door.  When 
David  Drysdale  came  to  inquire  for  his  yo^^, 
friend,  Philip  Wychnor  was  already  gone.  Still 
the  gay  throng  fluttered,  laughed,  and  chattered, 
for  an  hour  or  two  more,  and  then  dispersed. 

"  My  dea*-  "/Catharine,  how  silent  you  are  !" 
remarked  Lady  Ogilvie,  as  the  carriage  drove 
homeward. 

"  I  am  tired,  mother — very  weary.  Let  me 
alone  !"  was  the  answer,  in  a  cold,  sharp  tone, 
tha«f  excited  the  mild  reproach, 

"  Really  my  dear,  I  don't  think  your  temper 
is  improved  by  the  admiration  you  receive." 

There  was  no  reply  and  the  two  parents  dozed 


Katharine  reached  her  own  room,  and  locked 
the  door.  Then  she  flung  her  arms  above  her 
head  with  a  wild  cry  of  agony — half-sob,  half- 
moan — and  fell  heavily  on  the  floor. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

There  I  maddened Life  swept  through  me  into 

fever, 
And  my  soul  sprang  up  astonished— sprang  full-statured 

in  an  hour : 
— Know  you  what  it  is  when  anguish  with  apocalyptic 

Never 

To  a  Pythian  height  dilates  you  and  despair  sublimes 
to  power? 

E.  B.  BROWNINO. 

Am  I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish  that  which  bears  such 

bitter  fruit  ? 
I  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  though  my  heart  be  at  its 

root. 

TENNYSON. 

0  YE  cold  clear  winter  stars,  look  down  pity- 
ingly on  that  solitary  chamber  where  was  pour- 
ed out  the  anguish  of  first  passionate  love ! 
Erring  it  might  be — hopeless,  visionary,  even 
unmaidenly — but  it  was  pure,  nursed  in  solitude, 
and  hidden  from  all  human  eyes.  With  strength 
such  as  woman  only  knows,  Katharine  for  hours 
had  sung,  talked,  and  sat  in  silence  ;  but  when 
she  was  alone  the  terrible  cry  of  her  despair 
burst  forth. 

It  was  indeed  despair;  not  pining,  girlish 
sorrow.  She  neither  fainted  nor  wept ;  but  she 
crouched  on  the  floor,  swaying  to  and  fro,  her 
small  hands  tightly  clenched,  her  whole  frame 
convulsed  with  a  choking  agony. 

"  Oh  God  ! — oh  God ! — let  me  die  !"  rose  up 
the  almost  impious  cry  of  the  stricken  heart  that 
in  happiness  had  rarely  known  either  thanks- 
giving or  prayer — while  moan  after  moan  broke 
the  night-stillness.  She  breathed  no  word — not 
even  his  name.  All  that  she  felt  then  was  a 
longing  for  silence — darkness — death. 

But  this  stupor  did  not  last.  Her  burning, 
tearless  eyes,  wandering  round  the  room,  fell 
first  on  the  flowers  she  wore — his  favorites — 
then  on  a  book  he  had  given  her — alas !  her 
whole  daily  life  was  full  of  mementoes  of  him. 
At  once  the  flood  of  anguish  burst  forth  unre- 
strained. 

"Oh,  Paul,  Paul,  must  I  think  of  you  no 
more  ? — is  the  old  time  gone  forever  ?  A  life 
without  you,  a  future  wherein  the  past  must  b* 


74 


THE  OG1LVIES. 


forgotten— all  is  darkness,  darkness  !  Oh,  God, 
that  I  could  die  !" 

And  then,  like  a  lightning-flash,  came  the 
thought,  that  even  that  old  time  over  which  she 
mourned  had  been  only  a  self-beguiling  dream. 
He  had  never  loved  her,  not  even  then ;  but  he 
had  made  her  believe  so.  That  moment  a  new 
storm  of  passion  arose  in  her  heart. 

"  He  deceived  me ;  he  deceived  me  even 
then !  I  in  my  madness  have  given  him  all — 
life,  hope,  youth ;  and  he  has  given  me — nothing ! 
Paul !  Paul  Lynedon  !"  (and  rising  up  she  stood 
erect — pride,  indignation,  scorn,  on  eye,  lip,  and 
lofty  stature),  "how  dared  you  utter  your  false 
words  to  me  when  another  was  in  your  heart ! 
How  dared  you  call  me  '  dear  Katharine,'  when 
you  loved  not  me,  but  her  ?  And  now  you  will 
go  and  jest  with  her  over  the  poor  foolish  girl 
who  trembled  and  blushed  in  your  sight,  who 
had  given  you  her  whole  heart's  love,  and  would 
have  died  for  yours !" 

Katharine  paced  the  chamber,  her  step  quick 
and  wrathful,  her  face  burning  with  shame. 
Then  she  stopped  before  the  mirror,  and  sur- 
veyed herself  from  head  to  foot,  regarding  in- 
tently the  beauty  in  which  she  had  so  gloried 
tor  his  sake. 

"  He  shall  never  say  that  I  pined  for  him  in 
unrequited  love — I,  Katharine  Ogilvie,  whom 
the  world  calls  fair,  who  might  have  been  ad- 
mired, loved — ay,  worshiped.  But  I  gave  up 
all  for  him."  And  her  memory  pictured  the 
face  of  Hugh,  as  when  he  had  last  bade  her  good- 
by,  pale,  sad,  with  tears  in  the  kind  eyes  that 
had  watched  over  her  for  so  many  years.  His 
love,  if  rude,  was  deep  and  sincere,  and  hardly 
merited  a  rejection  so  cold  and  scornful  as  she 
had  lately  given.  Then  in  her  heart  dawned  a 
purpose,  sprung  from  the  passion  which  for  the 
time  had  almost  changed  to  hate,  and  now 
warped  every  feeling  of  her  impulsive  nature. 
It  was  a  purpose  from  which  every  woman  who 
loves  with  a  calm,  pure  love,  however  hopeless, 
would  turn  shuddering  aside,  feeling  how  great 
was  the  sin. 

"You  shall  never  triumph  over  me — you, 
Paul,  and  that  wife  of  yours !  you  shall  never 
laugh  together  at  the  girl  who  broke  her  heart 
for  lov.e.  No;  I  will  live — live  to  make  the 
world  know,  and  you  know,  what  I  am !  Yes, 
you  shall  hear  of  me — my  beauty,  and  my 
talents  !"  And  a  strange  bitter  laugh  of  self- 
derision  broke  from  those  white  lips,  over  which, 
a  few  hours  before,  had  dimpled  the  sweet, 
happy,  girlish  smile.  But  that  never  came  again 
— no,  never  more ! 

You,  O  Man !  who  with  your  honey  words 
and  your  tender  looks  steal  away  a  young  girl's 
heart  for  thoughtless  or  selfish  vanity,  do  you 
know  what  it  is  you  do  ?  Do  you  know  what 
it  is  to  turn  the  precious  fountain  of  woman's 
first  love  into  a  very  Marah,  whose  bitterness 
may  pervade  her  whole  life's  current — crushing 
her,  if  humble,  beneath  the  torture  of  self-con- 
tempt—or, if  proud,  making  her  cold,  heartless, 
revengeful — quick  to  wound  otheis  as  she  has 
herself  been  wounded?  And  if  she  marry, 
what  is  her  fate  ?  She  has  lost  that  instinctive 
worship  of  what  is  noble  in  man,  which  causes 
a  woman  gladly  to  follow  out  the  righteous 
altar-vow,  and  in  "honoring"  and  "obeying" 
her  husband,  to  create  the  sunshine  of  her  home. 


And  this  is  caused  by  your  deed !  Is  not  such 
deed  a  sin  ?  Ay,  almost  second  to  that  deadly 
one  which  ruins  life  and  fame,  body  and  soul ! 
Yet  man  does  both  toward  woman,  and  goes 
smiling  amidst  the  world,  which  smiles  at  him 
again ! 

It  may  be  said,  and  perhaps  truly,  that  with 
most  young  girls  love  is  a  mere  fancy ;  that  the 
pain,  if  any,  is  soon  forgotten,  and  so  the  inflic- 
tion of  it  becomes  no  crime.  But  how  few 
hearts  are  ever  read,  even  by  those  nearest  and 
dearest !  There  may  be  in  the  inmost  core  of 
many,  a  worm  of  which  the  world  never  knows. 
And  every  now  and  then,  undistinguished  out- 
wardly from  the  vapid,  fickle  tribe,  may  be  found 
some  impassioned  nature  like  Katharine  Ogil- 
vie's — of  such  an  one,  a  blow  like  this  makes 
either  a  noble  martyr-heroine,  or  a  woman  over 
whom  the  very  demons  gloat ;  for  they  see  in 
her  their  own  likeness — she  is  a  fallen  angel  too. 

The  distant  clanging  of  Summerwood  church- 
clock  resounded  above  the  moaning  of  the  bleak 
November  wind — one,  two,  three,  four.  Katha- 
rine heard  the  strokes,  and  paused.  Twelve 
hours  before,  she  had  counted  them  and  longed 
for  the  passing  of  the  brief  winter  twilight,  that 
the  pleasant  night  might  come.  It  would  per- 
haps bring — not  the  sight  of  Paul  Lynedon,  that 
she  knew  was  impossible — but  at  least  some 
tidings  of  him.  Now — oh,  terrible  change! 
It  was  from  a  world  of  sunshine,  to  the  same 
world  encompassed  by  a  thick  darkness — not 
that  of  holy,  star-spangled  night,  but  the  dark- 
ness of  a  heavy  mist,  which  pierced  into  the 
very  "soul.  Yet  she  must  walk  through  it,  and 
alone  !  The  dull  blank  future  lifted  itself  up 
before  her  with  terrible  distinctness.  Year 
after  year  to  live  and  endure,  and  she  scarce 
twenty  yet !  Katharine  shuddered ;-  one  wild 
thought  of  death — blessed,  peaceful  death,  ^self- 
summoned — entered  her  soul ;  but  that  soul  was 
still  too  pure  to  let  the  evil  spirit  linger  there. 
Flinging  herself  on  her  knees,  she  buried  her 
head  in  the  little  white  bed — where  night  after 
night  she  had  lain  down ;  reserving  always, 
when  the  day's  cares  or  pleasures  were  thought 
over,  a  few  minutes  to  muse  in  the  still  darkness 
upon  her  secret  maiden-love ;  and  then  had  gone 
calmly  to  sleep,  breathing,  with  an  earnest, 
tender  blessing,  the  one  beloved  name.  Now, 
that  name  must  never  be  uttered  more  ! 

"O  God!"  she  moaned,  forgetting  her  usual 
form  of  nightly  prayer — alas  for  Katharine !  in 
forms  only  had  she  learned  to  pray — "O  God! 
have  mercy — have  mercy  on  me  !" 

Let  us  speak  no  more  of  this  night's  agony. 
It  was  such  as  no  human  being  has  ever  wit 
nessed,  or  ever  will,  for  the  heart's  most  terrible 
struggles  must  be  borne  alone.  But  a  few  have 
felt  it — God  help  those  few !  He  only  who  gave 
to  our  mortal  nature  the  power  of  loving  with 
such  intensity,  can  guide,  and  sway,  and  comfort 
in  a  like  hour. 

But  Katharine  Ogilvie  knew  not  this  there- 
fore, ere  the  wild  prayer  which  despair  had 
wrung  forth  passed  from  her  lips,  its  influence 
had  vanished  from  her  heart.  Into  that  poor 
torn  heart  entered  evil  unknown  before :  and  its 
chambers,  no  longer  swept  and  garnished,  became 
neglected  and  defiled. 

The  world's  daily  round  goes  on,  heedless  of 
life,  death,  love,  the  three  elements  which  oom 


THE  OGILV1ES. 


pose  its  sorrows  and  its  joys.  Katharine  lay  down 
and  slept — yes,  slept ;  for  terrible  suffering  often 
brings  torpor.  .  In  the  morning  she  arose  and 
dressed — calmly,  without  a  tear  or  moan — all 
such  were  long  past !  Only  once — as  she  stood 
arranging  her  long,  beautiful  hair,  in  which  she 
always  took  great  pride,  for  his  hand  had  rested 
on  it — the  remembrance  struck  into  her  heart 
like  a  dagger.  She  could  have  rent  the  mag- 
nificent tresses  from  her  head,  she  could  have 
cursed  the  beauty  that  had  failed  to  win  Paul 
Lynedon !  Henceforward,  if  she  regarded  at  all 
the  self-adornment  which  in  due  measure  is  es- 
sential to  a  woman,  it  would  be,  not  from  that 
loving  desire  to  be  fair  and  pleasing,  but  from  a 
desperate,  vain-glorious  pride.  She  would  drive 
men  mad  with  her  beauty,  dazzle  them  blind,  set 
her  foot  on  their  necks,  and  laugh  them  to  scorn ! 

Katharine  passed  down  the  stair-case.  The 
•tudp  door  was  open,  and  her  grandfather's 
great  cat  came  purring  about  her  feet,  inviting 
her  in.  But  to  cross  the  threshold  of  the  well- 
known  room !  Every  thing  in  it  cried  out  with 
a  fiend-like  mocking  voice — "Fool — fool — self- 
deceiving  fool !  The  past,  the  precious  past — is 
nothing — was  nothing.  Blot  it  out  forever  !" 

She  shivered,  locked  the  door,  and  fled  down 
the  hall.  On  the  table  lay  some  green-house 
flowers — the  old  gardener's  daily  offering.  Above 
them  her  bird  sang  to  her  its  morning  welcome ; 
the  gladder  Because  the  clear  winter  sunshine 
reached  it  'even  in  its  cage.  Mechanically 
Katharine  placed  the  flowers  in  water ;  gave  the 
bird  his  groundsel ;  stooped  down  to  stroke  her 
ever-attendant  purring  favorite ; — but  the  great 
change  had  come.  Girlhood's  simple  pleasures 
were  no  more  for  her ;  she  had  reached  the  en- 
trance of  that  enchanted  valley  which  is  either 
paradise  or  hell — crossed  it,  and  shut  the  gate 
behind  her — forever. 

"  Don't  stay  here  longer  than  you  like,  my 
dear,"  said  Lady  Ogilvie,  as,  long  after  break- 
fast was  over,  and  Sir  Robert  had  ridden  off  to 
London,  Katharine,  contrary  to  her  custom,  lin- 
gered in  the  room,  sitting  motionless  by  the  fire, 
with  her  hands — those  dear,  active,  little  hands, 
generally  employed  in  something  or  other — 
folded  listlessly  on  her  lap.  She  turned  round, 
bent  her  head  assentingly,  and  then  gazed  once 
more  on  the  fire. 

"Still  here,  Katharine!"  again  mildly  won- 
dered Lady  Ogilvie,  as  she  paused,  after  some 
housekeeping  arrangements.  "  Pray,  my  love, 
do  not  let  me  keep  you  from  your  studies.  I  am 
not  at  all  dull  alone,  you  know;  run  away  if  you 
like." 

"I  can't,  mamma,  I  am  tired;"  said  Katharine, 
wearily.  "  Let  me  stay  with  you.'.' 

"  By  all  means,  dear  child.  Really  you  do  not 
look  well ;  come  and  lay  your  head  on  my  lap, 
as  you  know  you  always  like  to  do." 

She  drew  her  daughter  to  her  feet,  and  as 
usual  began  smoothing  her  hair  with  motherly 
tenderness,  talking  all  the  while  in  her  mild, 
quiet  way.  Lady  Ogilvie  was  very  much  sur- 
prised when  Katharine,  burying  her  face  in  her 
knees,  began  to  weep  violently ;  murmuring  amid 
her  sobs — 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother !  you  at  least  love  me ; 
• — yes,  I  know  you  do !  Tell  me  so  again.  Let 
me  feel  there  is  some  one  in  tXe  wide  world  that 
cares  for  me." 


"There  are  many,  my  darling,"  replied  Lady 
Ogilvie,  at  once  attributing  this  sudden  burst  of 
emotion  to  over-fatigue  and  excitement.  After 
having  soothed  the  girl  as  well  as  she  could,  sne 
commenced  various  maternal  questionings  and 
advice,  which,  if  tender,  were  both  prosy  and 
out  of  place,  as  they  entirely  related  to  the 
physical  welfare  of  her  child.  Such  a  thin£  as 
a  tortured  and  diseased  mind  never  entered  into 
Lady  Ogilvie' s  calculations. 

Katharine's  agonized  spirit  felt  this,  and  drew 
back  into  itself.  Her  good  and  tender  mother 
was  very  dear  to  her,  so  far  as  natural  and  in- 
stinctive affection  went ;  but  in  all  else  there  was 
a  wide  gulf  between  them — now  wider  than  ever. 
Unfortunate  Katharine !  there  was  in  the  whole 
world  no  tie  close  enough  to  fill  the  yearnings  of 
her  passionate  soul,  no  hand  strong  enough  to 
snatch  her  from  the  abyss  into  which  she  was 
already  about  to  plunge. 

"  You  shall  go  and  lie  down  again,  my  dear,'T 
said  the  mother.  But  Katharine  refused.  She 
dared  not  be  alone,  and  she  longed  for  an  op- 
portunity to  say  that  for  which  she  had  nerved 
herself.  So,  suffering  her  mother  to  place  her 
comfortably  on  the  sofa,  she  rested  in  apparent 
quiet  for  half  an  hour.  Lady  Ogilvie  went  in 
and  out  softly,  and  then  settled  herself  to  an 
occupation  which  was  always  heavy  and  irksome 
to  her — writing  a  letter.  Looking  up  with  a 
sigh,  after  five  minutes  spent  over  the  first  three 
lines,  she  saw  her  daughter's  large,  dark  eyes 
fixed  upon  her. 

"Dear  me,  Katharine,  I  thought  you  were 
asleep,"  she  said,  trying  to  conceal  the  note. 

"  No,  I  can  not  sleep.  Whom  are  you  writing 
to,  mother?"  asked  Katharine,  in  an  imperative 
tone,  not  unusual  in  their  intercourse,  for  the 
daughter's  stronger  mind  continually  and  undis- 
guisedly  assumed  the  pre-eminence. 

Lady  Ogilvie  was  constrained  to  answer  the 
truth.  "  Only  to  Hugh — poor  Hugh !  I  prom- 
ised I  would.  But  you  need  not  be  angry  at 
that,  my  child." 

Katharine  saw  the  opportunity  had  come :  she 
seized  it,  with  a  bold,  desperate  effort.  "  Mother, 
put  away  the  letter  and  come  here ;  I  want  to 
speak  to  you — about  Hugh."  Her  voice  and 
face  were  both  quite  calm;  the  mother  did  not 
see  that  under  the  folds  of  the  shawl  with  which 
she  had  covered  her  child,  the  damp  hands  were 
so  tightly  clenched  that  the  mark  of  the  nails 
remained  on  the  rosy  palm. 

"Do  not  let  us  talk  about  that,  my  darling; 
it  was  very  sad,  and  your  father  and  I  were 
troubled  and  disappointed  at  the  time,  because 
we  wanted  to  see  our  Katharine  happy,  and  we 
liked  Hugh  so  much.  But  if  you  could  not  love 
him,  why,  you  know,  my  child,  we  shall  never 
tease  you  any  more  on  the  subject.  Pray  be 
content." 

Katharine  rose  up  and  looked  her  mother  in 
the  face.  Years  after,  when  gentle  Lady  Ogilvie 
lay  on  a  death-bei,  she  described  that  look  amid 
her  ravings,  and  said  it  ever  haunted  her,  with 
the  rigid,  colorless  lips,  the  dark,  stony  eyes, 
"  neither  smiling  nor  sorry." 

"Mother,"  said  the  girl,  "do  not  wonder  at 
me — do  not  question  me — but  I  have  changed 
my  mind.  I  will  marry  Hugh,  when  he  or  you 
choose.  Write  and  tell  him  so." 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  heart  for  a  moment, 


76 


THE  OGiLVIES. 


as  if  the  effort  of  speaking  had  brought  a  pain 
there — as  indeed  it  had,  a  sharp  bodily  pain; 
but  she  hardly  felt  it  then.  She  sat  up,  and  bore 
her  mother's  startled,  searching  glance  without 
shrinking. 

"  Do  you  really  mean  what  you  say,  Katha- 
rine? Will  you  make  poor  Hugh — make  us 
all  so  happy  ?  Will  you  indeed  marry  him  ? 

"I  will." 

Lady  Ogilvie,  much  agitated,  did  what  nine 
out  of  ten  gentle-hearted  and  rather  weak-mind- 
ed women  would  do  on  such  an  occasion — she 
caught  her  daughter  to  her  bosom,  and  wept 
aloud.  Katharine  repulsed  not  the  caresses, 
out  she  herself  did  not  shed  a  tear.  A  faint  mis- 
giving crossed  the  mother's  mind. 

"  My  darling  Katharine,  you  are  happy  your- 
self, are  you  not?  You  are  not  doing  this  mere- 
ly to  please  yout  father  and  me  ?  Much  as  we 
wished  this  marriage,  we  never  will  consent  to 
the  sacrifice  of  our  child." 

"  I  am  not  sacrificing  myself  mother." 

"  Then  you  really  do  love  Hugh — not  in  a 
sentimental  girlish,  way — but  enough  to  make 
you  happy  with  him  as  "your  husband?" 

"My  husband — Hugh  my  husband  !"  mutter- 
ed Katharine,  with  quivering  lips,  but  she  set 
them  firmly  together.  The  next  moment  her 
old  manner  returned.  "  Mother,  I  marry  Hugh 
because  I  choose ;  and  when  I  say  a  thing  I 
mean  it— ay,  and  do  it,  too.  Is  that  suffi- 
cient?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear  love,  yes.  Pray  be  quiet.  I 
am  only  too  happy — so  happy  I  don't  know  what 
to  do  with  myself;"  and  she  moved  restlessly 
about,  her  eyes  continually  running  over,  even 
while  her  mouth  wore  its  most  contented  smile. 

"Now,  mother,  come  here,"  said  Katharine 
once  more,  drawing  the  letter  from  its  hiding- 
place.  "  Finish  this.  '  Tell  Hugh  that  I  have 
thought  over  the  matter  again,  and  will  marry 
him  whenever  he  chooses  to  come  for  me.  Only 
it  must  be  soon,  very  soon." 

"  How  strange  you  are,  my  love  !  You  do 
not  seem  to  feel  at  all  like  other  young  girls." 

"No  questioning,  mother!  Write  as  I  say," 
Katharine  answered,  in  a  hoarse,  imperious  tone. 

"  I  will,  I  will,  dear !  Only  why  must  the 
marriage  be  so  soon?" 

"  Because  I  might  change  my  mind,"  said 
Katharine,  bitterly.  "  I  have  done  so  once  be- 
fore. My  nature  must  be  very  fickle ;  I  want 
to  guard  against  it,  that  is  all.  Now,  write, 
dear  mother,"  she  added  more  gently. 

The  letter  was  written  and  dispatched.  Then 
Katharine's  strange  manner  passed  awrfy,  and 
she  seemed  calm.  So,  the  prisoner  who  writhes 
in  agony  on  his  way  to  the  scaffold,  on  reaching 
it  mounts  with  a  firm  and  steady  step; — he 
shrank  from  the  doom  afar  off;  it  comes,  and  he 
can  meet  it  without  fear. 

Lady  Ogilvie  kept  near  her  child  the  whole 
day.  In  Katharine's  manner  she  saw  only  the 
natural  agitation  of  a  young  girl  in  such  a  posi- 
tion. She  was  most  thankful  that  her  dear  child 
had  made  up  her  mind  to  marry  Hugh,  such  an 
excellent  young  man  as  he  was,  and  so  suitable 
in  every  respect.  This  marriage  would  unite 
the  title  and  estate,  keep  both  in  the  family  be- 
side, and  prevent  Katharine's  leaving  Summer- 
wood.  No  doubt  they  would  be  very  happy  for 
if  Katharine  was  not  positively  in  love  with  her 


cousin,  she  liked  him  well  enough,  ana  it  was 
always  best  to  have  most  love  on  the  husband's 
3ide. 

So  reasoned  Lady  Ogilvie,  sometimes  com 
municating  her  thoughts  aloud.  But  Katharine 
received  them  coldly,  and  at  last  begged  her  to 
changed  the  subject.  The  mother,  ascribing 
this  to  natural  shyness  and  sensitiveness,  obeyed 
— as,  indeed,  she  generally  did — and  only  too 
glad  was  she  to  have  her  daughter  by  her  side 
the  whole  day. 

"You  have  quite  deserted  your  own  little 
room,  though  I  know  you  like  it  far  Setter  than 
this  large,  dull  drawing-room.  Come,  dear  child, 
let  us  both  go,  and  you  shall  sing  for  me  in  the 
study." 

"Not  there,  not  there!"  answered  Katharine, 
shuddering.  "I  will  not  go  into  that  room.  I 
hate  it." 

"Why  so?"  gravely  said  the  mother,  surpris- 
ed, and  rather  uneasy  at  these  sudden  whims. 

Katharine  recovered  herself  in  a  moment. 

"  Did  I  not  tell  you  how  fickle  I  was  ?  There 
is  a  proof  of  it ;"  and  she  forced  a  laugh — but, 
oh,  how  changed  from  the  low,  musical  laugh 
of  old  !  "  Now,  don't  tease  me,  there's  a  dear 
mother.  I  have  a  right  to  be  fanciful,  have  I 
not?  Let  me  try  to  sing  my  whims  away." 

She  began  to  extemporize,  as  she  often  did, 
composing  music  to  stray  poetry.  First  came 
an  air,  not  meiely  cheerful,  but  Breathing  the 
desperation  of  reckless  mirth.  It  floated  into  a 
passionate  lament.  When  she  ceased,  her  face 
was  as  white  as  marble,  and  as  tigid.  She  had 
poured  out  her  whole  soul  with  her  song  ;  and 
absorbed  in  a  deep  reverie,  she  had  called  up 
the  past  before  her.  She  had  filled  the  half- 
darkened,  desolate  room  with  light,  and  music, 
and  gay  laughter.  Beside  the  dear  old  piano 
she  had  seen  standing  a  tall  shadowy  image, 
with  folded  arms,  and  eyes  bent  dreamily  for- 
ward. A  moment,  and  she  must  shut  it  out  for- 
ever— from  heart,  and  fancy  3  and  memory.  This 
song  was  the  dirge  of  that  olden  love.  She 
closed  the  instrument,  and  in  that  room  or  in 
that  house  Katharine  vowed  never  to  sing  more. 
She  never  did ! 

Worthy  Sir  Robert  Ogilvie  was  mightily  as- 
tonished, when  he  came  home  next  day,  to*  find 
his  nephew  hourly  expected  as  a  future  son-in- 
law.  He  kissed  his  daughter — a  ceremony  per- 
formed solemnly  at  Christmas  and  Easter,  or 
when  he  went  on  a  journey — told  her  he  was 
much  gratified  by  her  obedience,  and  felt  sure 
she  would  be  happy. 

"Only,"  observed  the  sedate  baronet  to  his 
wife^  when  they  were  alone  together,  "it  would 
have  saved  much  trouble  and  annoyance  if  Kath- 
arine had  known  her  own  mind  at  first.  But  I 
suppose  no  women — especially  young  women — 
ever  do." 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

Deep  as  love, 

Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret, 
Oh,  death  in  life— the  days  that  are  no  more ! 

TENNYSON. 

IT  was  the  eve  of  the  wedding-day — the  day 
which  was  to  unite,  in  newspaper  parlance, 
"Katharine,  only  child  and  heiress  of  Sir  Rob- 


THE  OGILVIES. 


77 


ert  Ogilvie,  of  Summerwood  Park,  to  Hugh 
Ogilvie,  Esq.,  only  son  of  the  late  Captain 
Francis  Ogilvie,  of  his  majesty's  service."  Nev- 
er was  there  a  better  match — and  eo  said  every 
gossiping  party  in  the  village,  from  the  circle 
round  the  blacksmith's  warm,  welcome  forge,  to 
that  round  the  doctor's  equally  welcome  tea- 
table.  Every  body  had  guessed  how  it  would 
be,  and  only  wondered  it  had  not  come  oft'  be- 
fore. All  the  world  and  his  wife  were  making 
ready  for  the  next  day ;  for  the  wedding  was  to 
be  at  the  village  church,  with  all  necessary 
accompaniments  of  green  boughs,  young  girls 
dressed  in  white,  charity  children,  &c.,  &c. 

Love  would  ever  fain  seal  its  vows  unobserv- 
ed, in  glad  and  solemn  privacy ;  but  no  such  im- 
pediment came  between  Sir  Robert  and  his  de- 
sire for  a  little  aristocratic  ostentation.  "  It 
was  proper,"  he  said;  "for  the  Ogilvies  were 
always  married  and  buried  in  public,  with  due 
ceremony."  Katharine  assented;  and  if  there 
came  a  deeper  and  bitterer  meaning  to  the  set 
smile  which  her  lips  now  habitually  wore,  her 
father  never  noticed  it.  She  let  them  all  do 
with  her  just  what  they  pleased;  so  the  joint 
conductors  of  the  affair,  Lady  Ogilvie,  Mrs. 
Fred  Pennythorne,  and  Sir  Robert,  arranged 
every  thing  between  them. 

On  the  wedding-eve  the  two  former  sat  with 
the  young  bride  in  her  dressing-room.  It  was 
strewed  with  attire  of  every  kind — laces,  silks, 
and  satins,  tossed  about  in  beautiful  confusion. 
The  female  ministrants  at  this  shrine  had  been 
trying  on  the  wedding-dress,  and  it  hung  grace- 
fully over  the  back  of  a  chair,  with  the  wreath 
and  vail.  Lady  Ogilvie  was  just  wiping,  for  the 
thousandth  time,  her  ever-tearful  eyes,  and  say- 
ing she  did  not  know  what  she  should  do  with- 
out Katharine,  even  for  a  month. 

"I  dare  say  you  will  have  to  learn,  aunt," 
paid  Mrs.  Frederick,  who  had  been  quite  in  her 
element  of  late,  administering  consolation,  lec- 
tures, and  advice,  with  all  the  dignity  of  a  new- 
ly-married lady.  "For  my  part,  I  wonder  that 
Katharine  likes  the  thought  of  coming  back.  I 
never  would  have  married  Frederick  at  all  if  I 
could  not  have  a  house  of  my  own." 

"I  believe  you,"  said  a  cold,  satirical  voice, 
as  Katharine  looked  up  for  a  moment,  and  then 
continued  her  work,  making  white  favors  for 
some  old  servants,  who  had  begged  for  this 
token  from  the  bride's  own  hands. 

"  Really,  my  dear,  how  sharply,  you  take  one 
up ! — you  quite  forget  I  am  married,"  said  Mrs. 
Pennythorne,  tossing  her  head.  "  But  I  sup- 
pose we  must  humor  you.  However,  things 
will  be  different  when  you  are  settled  again  at 
Summerwood." 

"  When  I  am,"  was  the  pointed  reply. 

"  When  you  are !"  echoed  Mrs.  Frederick. 
"  Why,  I  thought  the  matter  was  quite  settled. 
Your  father  wishes  it — and  your  future  husband. 
Ah,  when  you  are  married,  Hugh  will  make  you 
Jo  whatever  he  likes  !" 

"  Hugh  will  do  whatever  I  like,"  said  Kath- 
arine, haughtily,  and  she  knew  she  spoke  the 
truth :  the  humble,  loving  slave  of  one  man  was 
fast  becoming  the  tyrant  of  another.  It  always 
is  so.  "  Ask  him  the  question  yourself,  Isabel- 
la," she  added,  as  the  bridegroom  put  his  beam- 
ing face  in  at  the  door. 

He  was  a  fine  specimen  of  mere  physical 


beauty,  was  Hugh  Ogilvie — the  beau  ideal  of  a 
young  country  squire  :  most  girls  would  hav«» 
thought  him  a  very  Apollo,  at  a  race-course  or 
a  county  ball.  And  though  somewhat  rough, 
he  was  not  coarse,  else  how  could  Katharine 
have  liked  him?  —  as  she  certainly  did  while 
they  were  only  cousins.  And  since  his  affection 
for  her  had  grown  into  the  happiness  of  assured 
love,  his  manner  had  gained  a  softness  that  was 
almost  refinement.  If  with  others  he  laughed 
loudly,  and  talked  with  some  vulgarity,  he  nev- 
er came  into  her  presence,  or  within  the  spher* 
of  her  influence,  but  his  tone  at  once  became 
gentle  and  suppressed.  He  loved  her  very 
dearly,  and  she  knew  it ;  but  the  knowledge 
only  brought  alternately  scornful  triumph  and 
torturing  regret. 

t;  Cousin  Hugh !  cousin  Hugh  !  here's  a  pret 
ty  attempt  at  rebellion  in  your  bonnie  bride  !" 
said  Isabella,  flippantly.  "It  vows  and  declares 
that  it  will  not  obey  its  husband,  and  does  not 
intend  to  live  at  Summerwood." 

"What  is  that  about  not  living  at  Summer- 
wood?"  said  Lady  Ogilvie,  turning  rouu  m- 
easily,  with  her  pocket-handkerchief  at  her  eyes. 
"Katharine  does  not  surely  mean  to  say  that. 
To  lose  her  so  would  break  my  heart." 

"  It  must  not  do  that,  mother ;  I  hope  it  will 
not,"  answered  Katharine,  steadily  ;  "but  I  may 
as  well  say  at  first  as  at  last,  that  I  can  not  live- 
here  any  longer.  I  am  quite  wearied  of  this 
dull  place,  and  Hugh  must  take  me  away,  as 
he  promised  he  would,  when  I  engaged  to  be 
his  wife.  Is  it  not  so,  Hugh?" 

"  Yes,  yes — but  I  thought — that  is,  I  hoped — 'r 
stammered  the  bridegroom,  with  a  disappointed 
look. 

"  You  thought  I  should  not  expect  you  to  keep 
your  promise  ?  Well,  then,  I  see  no  necessity 
to  keep  my  own." 

"My  darling  Katharine,  don't  say  so!"  cried 
the  lover  in  new  anxiety,  as  he  flew  to  her  side 
and  took  her  hand.  She  drew  it  away,  not  in 
coquettish  anger,  but  with  a  proud  coldness, 
which  she  had  already  learned  to  assume.  Al- 
ready— already — the  tender  womanliness  was 
vanishing  from  her  nature,  and  she  who  had 
once  suffered  the  tortures  of  love  was  begin 
ning  to  inflict  them. 

"Here's  a  pretty  lovers'  quarrel — and  the 
very  day  before  the  wedding,  too!"  cried  Isa- 
bella. "  Aunt,  aunt,  you  and  I  had  better  l^ave 
them  to  make  it  up  alone."  And  Mrs.  Fred 
Pennythorne  led  through  the  open  door  the  still 
weeping  and  passive  Lady  Ogilvie,  who  now, 
more  than  ever,  was  ready  to  be  persuaded  by 
any  body.  To  tell  the  truth,  Isabella,  who  had 
not  lost  a  jot  of  her  envious  temper,  rather  hoped 
that  the  slight  disagreement  might  end  in  a  reg- 
ular fracas,  and  so  break  off  the  marriage. 

Katharine  was  left  alone  with  her  bride- 
groom. She  saw  that  the  time  was  come  for 
using  her  power,  and  she  did  use  it.  No  statue 
could  be  more  haughtily  impassive  than  she, 
though  not  a  trace  of  that  contemptible  quality 
— feminine  sullenness — deformed  her  beautiful 
face.  She  ruled  her  lover  with  a  rod  of  iron  : 
in  a  minute  he  was  before  her,  humbled  and 
penitent. 

"  Katharine — dear  Katharine — don't  be  angry. 
I  will  do  any  thing  you  like ;  only  we  should  b« 
so  happy  living  here." 


78 


THE  OGILV1ES 


14  I  will  not  stay  at  Summerwood.  I  hate  it. 
Hugh,  you  promised  to  take  me  away :  remem- 
ber that  promise  now,  if  you- love  me  as  you 
say  you  do."  And  Katharine,  restless  from  the 
thought  of  the  battle  she  had  to  win,  and  a 
iittle^touched  by  Hugh's  gentleness,  spoke  less 
freezingly  than  before. 

"If  I  love  you?  You  know  I  do,"  answered 
Hugh,  fondly  winding  her  arm  round  his  neck. 
She  drew  it  back  a  moment,  and  then,  smiling 
bitterly,  she  let  it  stay.  He  had  a  right  to  it 
now.  '"Katharine,"  continued  he,  "don't  you 
remember  the  time  when  we  were  children — at 
least,  you  were — and  I  used  to  carry  you  in  my 
arms  through  the  fields  ?  Don't  you  remember 
the  old  times — how  we  went  gathering  black- 
berries— how  I  led  your  pony,  and  taught  you 
to  ride ;  do  you  think  I  did  not  love  you  even 
then  ?  And  though,  when  we  grew  up,  we  be- 
gan to  like  different  pursuits,  and  you  were  a 
great  deal  cleverer  than  I,  didn't  I  love  you  as 
much  as  ever — more  perhaps?" 

"  You  did — you  did.  Good,  kind  cousin 
Hugh!"  murmured  Katharine,  with  a  pang  of 
self-reproach.  She  thought  of  the  old,  happy, 
childish  days,  before  the  coming  of  that  wild, 
delicious,  terrible  love. 

"Well,  then,  Katharine,  let  us  stay  at  Summer- 
wood.  It  will  please  your  father  and  mother, 
and  me,  too — though  I  don't  say  much  on  that 
score,  and  I  care  little  about  myself  in  com- 
parison with  you;  but  it  would  be  rather  hard 
to  give  up  the  shooting  and  farming,  to  shut 
oneself  up  in  a  close,  nasty  London  square.  I 
really  don't  think  I  can  consent  to  it." 

Katharine  rose  from  her  seat — all  her  passing 
softness  gone.  She  was  resolved  to  rule  this 
inferior  mind,  and  the  present  was  the  first 
struggle.  The  victory  must  be  gained. 

"Hugh  Ogilvie,"  she  said,  with  a  cold  firm- 
ness, "I  never  deceived  you  from  the  first.  I 
told  you  even  when  you  came  back  to — -to  be 
my  husband,"  she  said  the  word  without  trem- 
bling or  blushing,  "  that  I  did  not  love  you  as 
you  loved  me.  But  I  liked  you — had  liked  you 
from  a  child.  I  respected,  esteemed  you ;  I 
was  willing  to  marry  you,  if  you  chose.  Is  not 
that  true?" 

"It  is — it  is,"  murmured  the  bridegroom, 
shrinking  beneath  her  proud  eye. 

"But  I  made  the  condition  that  you  should 
take  me  to  live  elsewhere — to  see  the  world; 
that  I  should  not  be  cooped  up  here — it  tortures 
me — it  kills  me  !  I  want  to  be  free — and  I  will ! 
Otherwise,  no  power  on  earth  shall  persuade  or 
force  me  to  marry  you — not  even  though  to- 
morrow was  to  have  been  our  wedding-day." 

"Was  to  have  been!  Oh,  Katharine,  how 
cruel  you  are !  Say  shall  be,  for  indeed  it  shall. 
I  will  try  to  persuade  my  uncle.  We  will  live 
wherever  you  like — only  don't  give  me  up, 
Katharine.  I  know  how  little  you  care  for  me 
—I  feel  it ;  but  you  may  come  to  care  more  in 
time,  if  you  will  only  let  me  love  you,  and 
try  to  make  you  happy.  Indeed — indeed — I 
would." 

And  the  young  man,  perfectly  subdued,  knelt 
before  her  as  she  stood,  bowing  his  strong  frame 
to  the  earth,  and  clasping  her  knees,  with  tears 
funning  down  his  cheeks.  One  flash  of  evil 
triumph  lighted  up  Katharine's  face,  and  then, 
for  the  second  time,  a  pang  of  remorse  pierced 


her  soul.  The  wickedness,  the  falsehood  of  th« 
coming  marriage  vow — the  cruel  trampling  upon 
a  heart  which,  whatever  its  short-comings,  wa* 
filled  with  love  for  her — rushed  upon  her  mind. 
For  a  moment,  she  thought  of  telling  him  all ; 
there  was  a  whisper  within,  urging  her  to  im- 
plore his  forgiveness,  and  rather  brave  th* 
humiliation  of  hopeless,  unrequited  love,  than 
the  sin  of  entering  a  married  home  with  a  lie 
upon  her  soul.  But  while  she  hesitated,  outside 
the  door  rang  the  light,  mocking  laugh  of  Isa- 
bella; and  the  world — its  idle  jest,  its  hateful 
pity — rose  to  her  remembrance.  Her  proud 
spirit  writhed.  One  struggle — the  whisper  grew 
fainter,  and  the  good  angel  fled. 

"Katharine,  say  you  forgive  me,"  pleaded 
Hugh;  "you  shall  have  your  own  way  in  this, 
and  every  thing  else,  if  you  will  only  try  to  love 
me,  and  be  my  sweet,  dear,  precious  wife !" 

"I  will,"  answered  Katharine.  If,  as  the 
Word  saith,  "there  is  joy  in  Heaven  over  one 
sinner  that  repenteth,"  surely  there  is  sorrow 
over  one  fallen  soul ! 

The  same  night,  long  after  the  whole  house 
was  hushed,  a  light  might  have  been  seen  burn- 
ing in  one  of  the  upper  windows  at  Summer- 
wood.  It  came  from  Katharine's  chamber. 
There,  for  the  last  time,  she  kept  vigil  in  the 
little  room  which  had  been  her  shut-up  Eden 
in  childhood,  girlhood,  womanhood.  The  very 
walls  looked  at  her  with  the  old  faces  into  which 
her  childish  imagination  had  transformed  their 
shadowy  bunches  of  flowers,  when  she  used  to 
lie  in  bed — awake,  but  dreaming  many  a  fanci- 
ful day-dream,  before  her  mother's  morning 
summons  and  morning  kiss — always  her  moth- 
er's— broke  upon  tVn's  paradise  of  reverie.  Then 
there  was  the  bookcase,  with  its  treasure-laden 
shelves,  arranged  so  as  to  form  almost  a  perfect 
life-chronicle.  The  upper  one  was  filled  with 
old  worn  child's-books,  two  or  three  of  Mrs. 
Hofland's  beautiful  tales,  such  as  the  Clergy- 
man's Widow,  the  Young  Crusoe,  and  the  Bar- 
badoes  Girl,  books  which  every  child  must  love ; 
beside  them  came  a  volume  of  Mrs.  Hemans', 
and  the  delicious  "Story  without  an  End," 
showing  the  gradual  dawning  of  fancy  and 
poetry  in  the  young  mind :  and  so  the  silent  his- 
tory went  on.  The  lower  shelf  was  all  filled 
with  works,  the  strong  heart-beatings  of  heaven- 
ly-voiced poets  and  glorious  prose-writers  — 
Shelley,  Tennyson,  Miss  Barrett,  Carlyle,  Bul- 
wer,  Emerson.  And  in  this  era  of  the  chroni- 
cle, each  volume,  each  page,  was  alive  with 
memories  of  that  strong  love  which  had  been 
the  very  essence  of  Katharine's  life ;  out  of 
which  every  development  of  her  intellect  and 
every  phase  of  her  character  had  sprung. 

She  sat  by  the  fire,  rocking  to  and  fro,  on  the 
little  rocking-chair,  which  had  been  one  of  her 
fancies,  and  whose  soothing  motion  had  many  a 
time  composed  and  quieted  her  in  her  light  pass- 
ing troubles.  Beside  her,  on  the  table,  lay  the 
old  worn-out  desk  she  had  used  when  a  child, 
and  in  which,  afterward,  she  kept  her  treasures. 
She  opened  it,  and  looked  them  all  over. 

They  were  many,  and  curious,  but  all  relating 
in  some  wny  or  other  to  the  great  secret  of  her 
life.  There  were  numberless  fragments  of  stray 
poetry,  or  rather  rhyme ;  not  direct  heart-pour- 
ings — her  shrinking  delicacy  would  have  blush- 
ed at  that — but  effusions,  in  all  of  which  there 


THE  OGILVIES. 


79 


was  some  hidden  meaning.  As  she  read  these 
over,  one  by  one,  her  breast  heaved  convulsively, 
and  torrents  of  tears  burst  from  her  eyes  She 
dashed  them  away,  and  went  on  with  her  task. 
Other  relics  were  there — the  usual  girlish  me- 
mentoes— a  few  gift-flowers,  all  withered;  with 
some  verses  of  a  song,  written  in  a  bold,  manly 
hand — Lynedon  had  done  it  to  beguile  the  time, 
while  she  was  copying  music,  and  had  scribbled 
all  along  the  sides  of  the  page  her  name  and 
his  own. 

Apart  from  these,  in  a  secret  drawer,  lay 
Paul's  letter — his  first  and  only  letter.  Katha- 
rine tore  open  its  folds,  and  read  it  slowly  all 
through.  But  when  she  reached  the  end,  she 
lashed  it  to  the  floor. 

" '  His  Katharine ! — his  own  Katharine !'  And 
it  was  all  false — false  !  He  bade  me  remember 
him,  and  I — a  poor,  vain,  credulous  fool —  But 
it  shall  be  so  no  more;  I  will  crush  him  from 
my  heart — thus — thus  !" 

Her  foot  was  already  on  the  letter ;  but  she 
drew  back,  snatched  it  once  again,  and  pressed 
it  wildly  to  her  lips  and  bqsom. 

There  was  one  more  relic:  that  likeness 
which  bore  such  a  strange  resemblance  to  Paul 
Lynedon — the  head  of  Keats.  Katharine  took 
the  long-hoarded  treasure  from  its  hiding-place, 
and  gazed  fixedly  on  it  for  a  long  time.  Then 
the  fountain  of  her  tears  was  unlocked,  and  sobs 
of  agony  shook  her  whole  frame. 

"  Oh,  my  Paul ! — heart  of  my  heart ! — my  no- 
ble Paul ! — why  did  you  not  love  me  ?  Is  there 
any  one  in  the  world  who  would  have  worshiped 
you  as  I  ?  I — who  would  have  given  my  life  to 
make  you  happy — who  would  now  count  it  the 
dearest  blessing  only  to  lean  one  moment  on 
your  breast,  to  hear  you  say,  '  My  Katharine !' 
and  then  lie  down  at  your  feet  and  die.  Die — 
shall  I  die  for  one  who  sported  with  me,  who  de- 
ceived me?  Nay;  but  I  beguiled  myself;  I 
only  was  vain — mad — blind!  What  was  I,  to 
think  to  wm  him?  Paul — Paul  Lynedon — no 
wonder  that  you  loved  me  not !  I  was  not  wor- 
thy even  to  lift  my  eyes  unto  such  as  you !" 

In  this  fearful  vigil  of  dispair,  fierce  anger, 
and  lingering  love,  the  night  wore  on.  It  seem- 
ed an  eternity  to  the  miserable  girl.  At  last, 
utterly  broken  and  exhausted,  Katharine's  tor- 
tured spirit  sank  into  a  deadly  calm.  She  sat 
motionless,  her  arms  folded  on  the  little  desk,  and 
her  cheek  leaning  against  the  mournful  relics  of 
a  life's  dream.  Suddenly  she  heard  the  twitter 
of  a  bird,  and  saw  her  lamp  grow  pale  in  the  day- 
break. 

Then  she  arose,  gathered  up  her  treasures, 
laid  them  solemnly,  one  by  one,  on  the  embers 
of  the  dying  fire,  and  watched  until  all  were 
consumed. 

The  next  day— nay,  the  same  day,  for  it  was 
already  dawn — Katharine  Ogilvie  was  married. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

Seldom  hath  my  tongue  pronounced  that  name. 

But  the  dear  love,  so  deeply  wounded  then, 
I  in  ray  heart,  with  silent  faith  sincere 
Devoutly  cherish  till  we  meet  again. 

SOUTHKY. 

WE  are  about  to  break  through  all  dramatic 


unity  of  place,  and  to  convey  our  readers  abroad 
Suppose,  then,  the  scene  transfei  red  to  the  conti- 
nent — I  taly — Florence.  But  the  reader  need  not 
shudder  at  the  name,  and  expect  long-winded 
descriptions  of  scenery — chapters  taken  at  ran- 
dom from  Murray's  Handbook ;  since,  for  various 
excellent  reasons,  we  shall  eschew  all  landscape 
painting. 

There  is,  we  understand — for  truth  forbids  us 
to  speak  without  this  qualification — in  Florence 
a  pleasant  square,  which  forms  a  general  lounge 
for  idlers,  rich  and  poor,  native  and  foreign,  in- 
asmuch as  it  contains  a  market,  a  curious  antique 
building— Called,  not  unappropriately,  the  Palaz- 
zo Vecchip — and  the  town  post-office.  This  lat- 
ter place  is  of  course  the  perpetual  resort  of  for- 
eigners who  are  anxious  to  snatch  their  precious 
home  remembrances  from  the  well-known  care- 
lessness of  Italian  officials.  Thus,  almost  all  the 
British  residents,  or  passing  visitors  to  Florence, 
may  be  seen  at  different  times  strolling  round 
this  square. 

Among  them,  one  day  in  winter,  were  two 
ladies  walking  slowly,  the  elder  leaning  on  her 
companion's  arm.  Beneath  the  close  black  bon- 
net and  vail  of  the  taller  one,  appeared  the  sharp 
regular  features  of  Mrs.  Breynton.  She  looked 
a  little  older  perhaps,  and  a  little  more  wrin- 
kled; but  still  she  was  the  same  Mrs.  Breyn- 
ton, the  widow  of  the  dean,  with  her  tall, 
straight  figure,  and  her  canonically  flowing 
black  robes. 

The  young  girl  on  whom  she  leaned  was,  it  is 
needless  to  say,  Eleanor  Ogilvie. 

Dear  Eleanor — the  much-tried  but  yet  happy, 
because  loved  and  loving  one !  let  us  look  once 
more  on  that  slight,  drooping  figure,  like  a  wil- 
low at  a  brook  side — that  pale,  clear  brow — those 
sweet,  calm  eyes !  But  adjectives  and  metaphors 
fail ;  she  is  of  those  whom  one  does  not  even 
wish  to  describe — only  to  look  upon,  murmuring 
softly,  "I  love  you — I  love  you!"  evermore. 
And  where  there  is  love  there  must  be  beauty, 
perhaps  the  more  irresistible  because  we  can 
not  tell  exactly  in  what  feature  or  gesture  it 
lies. 

Time  passes  lightly  over  all  equable  natures  ; 
— it  had  done  so  over  Eleanor  Ogilvie.  Her 
mind  and  character  were  nearly  matured  when 
we  first  saw  her,  and  a  few  years  made  little 
difference.  Perhaps  the  fair  cheek  was  some- 
what less  round,  and  the  eyes  more  deep  and 
thoughtful,  especially  now,  when  a  care  heavier 
than  ordinary  weighed  on  her  gentle  spirit.  But 
it  caused  no  jarring  there ;  no  outward  sign  of 
impatient  trouble  marred  the  sweetness  of  look 
or  manner.  To  a  heart  so  pure,  even  sorrow 
comes  as  a  vailed  angel. 

"  How  cold  it  is,  Eleanor !"  said  Mrs.  Breyn-+ 
ton,  as  the  occasional  east-wind,  which  maxes  a 
Lombard  winter  almost  like  a  northern  one, 
swept  round  the  tower  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  ; 
"I  do  not  see  that  I  am  any  the  better  for  com- 
ing to  Italy;  it  was  much  warmer  at  L ." 

And  as  she  spoke,  one  might  perceive  that  her 
voice  had  changed  from  the  slow  preciseness  of 
old,  to  a  sharp,  querulous  tone,  which  seemed  te 
ask,  as  if  through  long  habit,  for  the  soothing  an- 
swer that  never  failed. 

'  It  is  indeed  very  cold ;  but  this  bleak  wind 
only  conies  now  and  then.  We  may  be  sure 
that  Doctor  B was  quite  right  when  he  or- 


80 


THE  OG1LVIES. 


dered  you  te  the  South ,  and  I  think  your  cough 
is  better  already." 

"Is  it?"  said  the  invalid,  and  to  disprove  the 
fact  she  coughed  violently.  "No,  no — I  shall 
die  of  asthma,  I  know ;  like  my  father,  and  my 
great  uncle,  Sir  Philip  Wychnor."  Here  there 
was  a  slight  movement  in  the  arm  on  which  the 
old  lady  rested ;  it  caused  her  brow  to  darken, 
and  the  thin  lips,  through  which  had  uncon- 
sciously issued  this  rarely  uttered  name,  were 
angrily  compressed.  She  did  not  look  at  her 
companion,  but  walked  on  in  silence  for  some 
minutes. 

Nor  did  Eleanor  speak,  but  her  head  drooped 
«.  little  lower ;  and  the  moistened  eyelash  and 
trembling  lip  could  have  told  through  how  much 
forbearance  and  meekness,  daily  exercised,  had 
Philip's  betrothed  kept  her  promise  to  him.  She 
was,  indeed,  as  a  daughter  unto  the  stern  woman 
who  had  once  shown  kindness  toward  her  lover.  It 
was  a  strange  bond  between  the  two,  and  formed 
of  many  conflicting  elements.  On  one  side,  the 
very  wrath  of  Mrs.  Breynton  toward  her  nephew 
made  her  heart  cling  with  a  sort  of  compassion 
to  the  young  girl  whom  she  deemed  he  had 
slighted;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  Eleanor  for- 
got, at  times,  even  the  present  wrong  done  to 
her  lover,  remembering  that  Mrs.  Breynton  was 
Philip's  near  kinswoman,  and  had  once  been,  as 
far  as  her  cold  nature  allowed,  in  the  stead  of  a 
mother  to  him.  There  was  still  a  lingering 
warmth  in  the  ashes  of  that  olden  affection.  Elea- 
nor saw  it  many  a  time,  even  in  the  sudden 
anger  aroused  by  some  chance  memento  of 
Philip's  childhood;  and,  day  by  day,  her  whole 
thought,  her  whole  aim,  was  to  revive  this  form- 
er love.  Thus  silently,  slowly,  she  pursued  the 
blessed  work  of  the  peacemaker. 

They  advanced  toward  the  post-office,  where, 
as  usual,  was  a  cluster  of  people  anxiously  strug- 
gling for  letters.  It  would  have  been  an  amus- 
ing scene  for  a  psychologist,  or  a  student  of 
human  nature;  but  the  English  ladies  had  too 
much  interest  on  their  own  account  to  notice 
those  around.  They  were  trying  to  make  their 
way  through  the  crowd,  which,  trifling  as  it  was, 
inconvenienced  the  precise  Mrs.  Breynton  ex- 
ceedingly. 

"  Let  us  stay  in  the  rear  of  this  gentleman, 
who  is  probably  waiting  for  the  English  letters," 
whispered  Eleanor,  glancing  at  a  tall,  cloak-en- 
veloped personage  who  stood  in  front. 

Softly  as  she  spoke,  he  seemed  to  catch  the 
tone,  for  he  turned  round  suddenly,  and  Eleanor 
recognized  the  face,  which  had  almost  passed 
from  her  memory  like  a  painful  dream — the  face 
of  Paul  Lynedon. 

Their  eyes  met;  her  color  rose,  and  there  was 
a  slight  contraction  of  his  brow ;  but  the  next 
.noAent  he  bowed  with  an  easy  grace  and  a 
polite  smile,  that  at  once  banished  from  Eleanor's 
mind  all  regretful  thought  of  the  lover  she  had 
rejected.  She  held  out  her  hand  with  a  frank 
and  gentle  kindness ;  he  took  it  with  the  careless 
courtqsy  of  a  man  of  fashion.  There  was  no 
agitation,  no  pain,  visible  in  his  countenance, 
for  there  was  none  in  his  heart.  A  little  annoy- 
ance or  mortification  he,  perhaps,  might  feel,  on 
being  unpleasantly  reminded  of  the  time  when 
he  had  "made  such  a  fool  of  himself ;"  but  he 
was  too  polite  and  too  proud  to  betray  the  same 
in  word  or  manner. 


Paul  Lynedon  quite  overwhelmed  Mrs.  Breyn. 
ton  with  his  expressions  of  gratification  at  so 
unexpectedly  meeting  with  two  "  fair  country- 
women." He  was  as  stately  and  courteous  as 
of  old ;  but  his  manners  wore  less  of  the  grace- 
ful charm  which  springs  from  a  kindly  heart,  and 
more  of  that  outward  empressement  which  some- 
times assimilates  to  affectation.  It  was  evident 
that  he  had  become  a  complete  man  of  the  world. 

He  easily  procured  their  letters.  There  were 
several  for  Mrs.  Breynton,  and  two  for  Eleanor. 
Hugh's  large,  careless  handwriting  marked  one 
of  the  latter.  She  opened  it,  and  started  in  joy- 
ful surprise  at  the  intelligence  it  contained — the 
announcement  of  the  intended  marriage  of  her 
brother  and  cousin.  In  sisterly  exultation,  she 
proclaimed  the  news  aloud. 

"  How  glad  I  am  ! — how  I  always  wished  for 
this !  Dear  Hugh !  dear  Katharine  ! — You  re- 
member Katharine,  Mr.  Lynedon?"  were  her 
hurried  exclamations. 

Mr.  Lynedon  "remembered  her  quite  well, 
as  every  one  must — a  sweet  girl !  He  was  in- 
deed happy  to  hear  she  was  married."  This  was 
not  exactly  true,  as,  in  running  over  the  list  of 
fair  young  creatures  who  had  looked  favorably 
on  himself,  Paul  had  unconsciously  fallen  into 
the  habit  of  including  Katharine  Ogilvie.  She 
was  a  mere  child  then,  to  be  sure,  but  she  might 
grow  up  pretty ;  and  if  so,  supposing  they  ever 
met  again,  the  renewal  of  his  slight  flirtation 
with  her  would  be  rather  amusing  than  other 
wise.  At  hearing  ef  her  marriage,  he  felt  an 
uncomfortable  sensation — as  he  often  did  at  the 
wedding  of  any  young  girl  who  had  appeared  to 
like  him.  It  seemed  to  imply,  that  Paul  Lynedon 
was  not  the  only  attractive  man  in  the  world. 
Even  when  Eleanor,  chancing  to  draw  off  her 
glove,  had  unconsciously  exhibited  the  unwedded 
left  hand,  he  had  glanced  at  it  with  a  pleasurable 
vanity.  Though  he  was  not  in  love  with  her 
now,  and  really  wondered  how  he  ever  could 
have  been,  still  he  felt  a  degree  of  self-satisfac- 
tion that  no  other  man  had  gained  the  prize 
which  he  now  blushed  for  ever  having  sought. 
How  gradually  the  rust  of  vain  and  selfish 
worldliness  had  crept  over  Paul  Lynedon's  soul ! 

"They  must  be  married  by  this  time,"  ob- 
served Eleanor,  referring  to  the  letter.  "Hugh 
says,  I  think,  that  it  was  to  be  very  soon — ah  ! 
yes,  the  27th." 

"  Then  to-morrow  is  the  wedding-day,"  said 
Lynedon.  "  Allow  me  thus  early  to  offer  you 
my  warm  congratulations,  with  every  good  wish 
to  the  happy  couple." 

Eleanor  thanked  him,  her  heart  in  her  eyes. 
Then  he  made  his  adieus,  and  disappeared 
among  a  group  of  Florentine  ladies.  There  was 
a  ball  that  night  in  Florence,  at  which  none  were 
more  brilliant  or  admired  than  the  young  English- 
man. He  smiled  as  he  listened  to  the  words,  il 
Signor  Paul  Lynedon,  brokenly  and  coquettishly 
murmured  by  many  a  fair  Italian  dama.  He  did 
not  hear  from  afar  the  wild  moan  of  one  stricken 
heart,  that  in  lonely  despair  sobbed  forth  the  same 
name.  Oh  Life !  how  blindly  we  grope  among 
thy  mysteries ! 

Mrs.  Breynton  expressed  the  proper  degree  of 

pleasure  in  a  few  formal  congratulations;  but 

her  knowledge  of  Hugh  was  small,  and  her  in- 

!  terest  in  him  still  less,  for  the  range  of  the  good 

;  lady's  sympathies  had  never  been  very  wide 


THE  OGILVIES. 


81 


Besides,  she  was  somewhat  shocked  at  the  im- 
propriety of  reading  letters  in  the  street,  and 
had  carefully  gathered  up  her  own  budget  for  a 
quiet  home-perusal.  However,  on  reaching 
their  abode,  she  condescended  so  far  as  to  ask 
..o  see  Hugh's  letter.  Eleanor  gave  it  before 
she  had  herself  quite  read  through  the  long  and 
rambling  effusion  of  a  lover's  delight. 

Over  it  the  aged  eyes  seemed  slowly  to  jour- 
ney without  a  single  change  of  expression. 
Eleanor  watched  the  immovable  face,  and  mar- 
veled. A  love-history  of  any  kind  is  regarded 
so  differently  at  three-and-twenty  and  three-and- 
sixty.  But  when  Mrs.  Breynton,  in  her  slow 
perusal,  reached  the  postscript,  her  countenance 
changed,  grew  pale,  and  then  darkened.  She 
hastily  refolded  the  paper,  laid  it  on  the  table, 
and  snatching  up  her  own  packet  of  letters,  quit- 
ted.the  room. 

Eleanor  again  took  Hugh's  epistle,  and  read : 

"  Cousin  Bella  was  married  lately  to  a  Mr. 
Frederick  Pennythorne.  By-the-by,  through  this 
wedding,  our  old  friend,  or  rather  yours,  Philip 
Wychnor,  has  turned  up  again.  The  Penny- 
thornes  know  him,  and  Katharine  met  him  at  a 
grand  literary  party.  He  asked  after  you,  but 
he  did  not  speak  about  Mrs.  Breynton.  Is  there 
any  breeze  between  him  and  the  old  aunt  ?  He 
is  growing  a  celebrated  author,  having  turned 
out  quite  a  genius,  as  Katharine  says — and  she 
must  know,  being  so  clever  herself,"  &c.,  &c. 
And  the  lover  returned,  of  course,  to  the  praises 
of  his  beloved. 

Eleanor  paused,  oppressed  with  many  mingled 
feelings.  It  was  now  a  long  season  since  she 
had  heard  from  Philip.  At  first  his  sudden  si- 
lence pained  her;  and,  casting  aside  all  girlish 
caprice  and  anger,  she  had  written  more  than 
once,  but  no  answer  came.  She  then  felt,  not 
doubt  of  his  faithfulness,  but  terror  for  his  health; 
until  this  fear  was  lightened  by  her  continually 
tracing  his  name  in  various  literary  channels, 
and  on  one  occasion  receiving,  addressed  to  her 
in  his  own  handwriting,  Philip's  first  published 
book.  She  marveled,  almost  sorrowfully,  that 
even  her  loving  and  delighted  acknowledgment 
of  this  brought  no  reply.  And  yet  she  trusted 
him  still.  She  would  have  doubted  the  whole 
world  rather  than  Philip  Wychnor's  truth.  Yet, 
except  that  her  constant  attendance  on  Mrs. 
Breynton  left  little  time  to  muse  and  grieve, 
Eleanor  would  have  been  very  sad — the  more 
so,  that  she  had  to  shut  up  all  grief  and  anxiety 
so  closely  in  her  heart. 

Truthful  and  candid  as  she  was,  Eleanor  had 
never  sought  to  make  her  correspondence  with 
her  betrothed  a  clandestine  one.  Between  her- 
self and  Mrs.  Breynton  there  was  a  perfect 
silence  on  the  subject,  without  attempt  either  at 
explanation  or  concealment.  Month  after  month 
the  post-bag  of  the  palace  had  been  trusted  with 
these  precious  love-messages  from  one  true-heart 
to  the  other ;  therefore  now  no  doubt  of  foul  play 
ever  crossed  the  mind  of  the  young  betrothed  : 
she  would  have  scorned  to  harbor  such  an  un- 
worthy suspicion  of  Philip's  aunt.  Still,  Eleanor 
had  need  of  all  her  courage  and  faithful  love  to 
bear  this  suspense.  Even  now,  when  she  re- 
•oiced  at  these  good  news  of  him-,  her  gentle  heart 
was  sorely  pained  that  Philip  himself  should  not 
have  been  the  first  to  convey  it. 

She  dried  a  few  gathering  tear?  and  determ- 
F 


ined  to  trust  him  still,  uncil  the  near  tennina- 
tion  of  this  Italian  journey  should  enable  her  to 
visit  Summerwood,  when  some  blessed  chance 
would  bring  her  face  to  face  with  her  betrothed. 

Then  she  mechanically  opened  the  second 
letter,  which  had  been  neglected  for  Hugh's. 

It  informed  her  that  Sub-dean  Sedley,  the  un 
wearied  backgammon-player  of  the  Close,  at 

L ,  had  died  and  left  her,  Eleanor  Ogilvie, 

sole  mistress  of  six  thousand  pounds ! 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

Cym.  O  disloyal  thing, 

That  should  repair  my  youth ;  thou  heapest 
A  year's  age  on  me. 

/MW.  I  beseech  you, 

Harm  not  yourself  with  your  vexation :  I 
Am  senseless  of  your  wrath ;  a  touch  more  rare 
Subdues  all  pangs,  all  fears. 

Cym.  Past  grace  1  obedience  1 

SHAKSPKARE 

MRS.  BREYNTON  had  the  character  of  being 
a  strong-minded  woman;  but  no  one  would 
ha^e  thought  so  to  see  her  when,  after  leaving 
Eleanor,  she  proceeded  to  her  own  apartment 
and  walked  restlessly  up  and  down,  her  whole 
countenance  betraying  the  inward  chafing  of  her 
spirit.  She  glanced  carelessly  at  the  letters  she 
still  held,  and  threw  them  down  again.  She  was 
just  beginning  to  grow  calm  when  another  packet 
was  brought  her  with  "  Mr.  Lynedon's  compli- 
ments, and  he  felt  glad  to  have  been  able  to 
rescue  the  inclosed  from  further  delay  at  the 
post." 

Mrs.  Breynton  returned  a  polite  message,  put 
on  her  spectacles,  and  prepared  herself  to  read 
the  second  edition  of  correspondence.  The  first 
of  the  batch  was  evidently  interesting — as  it 
might  well  be — for  it  looked  the  fac-simile  of 
that  lawyer's  epistle  which  had  communicated  to 
Eleanor  such  important  tidings.  Mrs.  Breynton 
was  rising  to  summon  her  young  friend,  when 
the  second  letter  caught  her  eye.  It  was  ad- 
dressed to  Miss  Ogilvie,  yet  she  snatched  it  up, 
and  eagerly  examined  the  handwriting. 

It  resembled  that  of  many  a, schoolboy  letter 
which  at  Midsummer  and  Christmas  had  come 
to  the  palace,  which  she  ha.d  deciphered — not 
without  pleasure — from  the  flourishing  "Dear 
Aunt,"  to  the  small,  cramped  ending,  "  Your 
dutiful  and  affectionate  nephew."  It  was  still 
more  like  the  careless  college  scrawl  which  had 
weekly  informed  her  of  Oxford  doings  in  a  frank, 
easy  style,  whose  informality  sometimes  gained 
a  grave  reproof.  As  she  held  the  letter  to  the 
light,  her  fingers  trembled,  even  though  her 
brow  was  angrily  knitted.  Then  she  turned  to 
the  seal — a  rather  remarkable  one.  It  was  her 
own  gift — she  remembered  it  well — with  the 
Wychnor  crest  and  a  cross  underneath.  What 
trouble  she  had  taken  to  have  it  engraved  in 
time  for  his  birthday !  How  dared  he  think  of 
this,  and  use  it  now ! 

Mrs.  Breynton  had  never  been  a  mother.  No 
child  had  ever  clung  to  her  bosom,  and  nestled 
near  her  heart,  to  charm  away  all  the  coldness 
and  harshness  there.  Marrying  without  love, 
she  had  passed  through  life,  and  never  felt  a 
single  strong  affection.  Perhaps  the  warmest 
feeling  of  her  nature  had  been  that  which  in  her 
girlhood  united  her  to  her  only  brother.  After 


THE  OGILVIES. 


this  tie  was  broken,  her  disposition  grew  cold 
and  impassive,  until  the  little  Philip  came — a 
softened  image  of  the  past,  a  vague  interest  for 
the  future.  Every  lingering  womanly  feeling  in 
her  frost-bound  heart  gathered  itself  around  the 
child  of  her  dead  brother ;  and  with  these  new 
affections  came  a  determination,  springing  from 
her  iron  will  and  inflexible  prejudices,  to  make 
the  son  atone  for  the  still  unforgiven  dereliction 
of  the  father,  in  quitting  that  service  of  the 
sanctuary  which  had  become  part  of  the  family 
inheritance. 

A  female  bigot  is  the  most  inveterate  of  all. 
The  Smithfield  burnt-offerings  of  Mary  Tudor 
were  tenfold  more  numerous  than  those  of  the 
kingly  wife-murderer,  who  called  her  'daughter. 
Had  Mrs.  Breynton  lived  in  those  days,  she 
would  have  rejoiced  in  a  heretic-pyre.  There- 
fore when  she  tried  to  constrain  her  nephew  to 
enter  the  Church,  it  was  with  the  full  conviction 
that  she  was  doing  her  best  for  his  soul  as  well 
as  for  his  temporal  interests.  She  loved  him,  as 
much  as  a  woman  like  her  could  love ;  she  de- 
sired his  welfare ;  but  then  all  good  must  come 
to  him  through  one  way — the  way  she  had  plan- 
ned. To  this  road  she  had  alternately  lured  and 
goaded  him.  In  his  destiny  she  proposed  to  in- 
clude two  atonements — one  on  the  shrine  of  the 
Church,  the  other  by  his  union  with  Eleanor — 
to  the  memory  of  the  girl's  forsaken"  mother. 

When  the  conscientious  scruples  of  the  young 
man  thwarted  this  great  scheme  of  her  life, 
Mrs.  Breynton  was  at  first  paralyzed.  That 
Philip  should  venture  to  oppose  herself — that  he 
should  dare  to  doubt  those  ecclesiastical  mys- 
teries, without  the  pale  of  which  she  conceived 
all  to  be  crime  and  darkness,  was  a  greater 
shock  than  even  the  short-comings  of  his  father. 
She  felt  overwhelmed  with  horror  and  indigna- 
tion ;  an  indignation  so  violent,  that  both  then 
and  for  a  long  time  afterward  it  caused  her,  like 
most  bigots,  to  confound  the  sinner  with  the  sin, 
until  she  ^positively  hated  the  nephew  who  had 
once  been  to  her  a  source  of  interest  and  pride. 
But,  this  first  tempest  of  wrath  over,  she  began 
to  incline  toward  the  lost  one ;  and  with  a 
strange  mingling  of  affection,  obstinate  will,  and 
that  stern  prejudice  which  seemed  to  her  dark- 
ened eyes  the  true  spirit  of  religion,  Mrs.  Breyn- 
ton determined,  if  she  could  not  win,  to  force 
her  nephew  into  the  path  for  which  she  had 
destined  him. 

Long  she  pondered  upon  the  best  method  of 
accomplishing  her  will ;  and,  embittered  as  she 
was  against  Philip,  it  was  some  time  before  she 
could  reconcile  her  pride  and  her  conscience  to 
do  that  which,  by  driving  him  to  despair,  would 
at  last  bring  home  the  repentant  prodigal.  Bat 
when,  in  her  blindness,  she  had  fully  satisfied 
herself  that  "the  end  sanctified  the  means," 
she  commenced  the  plan  which  suggested  itself 
as  best.  No  more  letters  were  received  either 
by  Philip  or  Eleanor.  All  were  intercepted  and 
consigned  to  the  flames,  in  Mrs.  Breynton' s 
room. 

She  did  not  qpen  or  read  a  single  one ;  for, 
while  persuading  herself  that  she  was  fulfilling 
a  stern  duty  the  dean's  widow  would  have 
scorned  to  gratify  idle  curiosity  or  malice.  She 
could,  self-deceived,  commit  a  great  crime,  but 
she  could  not  stoop  to  a  small  meanness.  Un- 
moved, she  saw  Eleanor's  cheek  grow  pale  with 


anxiety,  and  fancied  that  all  this  time  she  was 
working  out  the  girl's  future  happiness;  thai 
the  recreant  lover  would  be  brought  to  his 
senses,  and,  with  a  good  rectory,  lake  to  himself 
a  loving  wife. 

It  would  be  a  curious  study  for  those  whc 
rightly  and  justly  believe  in  the  perfectibility 
of  humanity,  to  trace  how  often  at  the  root  of 
darkest  woe-creating  crime  lurks  some  motive, 
which,  though  warped  to  evil,  has  its  origin  in 
good.  So  it  was  with  this  woman. 

She  stood  looking  at  the  letter,  and  thinking 
over  the  news  which  had  come  to  her  knowledge 
concerning  Philip.  It  had  irritated  and  alarmed 
her  to  hear  of  her  nephew's  success.  She 
feared  lest  her  own  hold  over  him — by  which, 
through  his  love  for  Eleanor,  she  might  wring 
every  fiber  of  his  heart — should  grow  weaker  as 
he  prospered  in  the  world.  Indignant  beyond 
endurance,  she  crushed  the  letter  in  her  hand 
and — the  seal  broke ! 

But  for  this  chance  she  might  have  withstood 
the  desire  which  prompted  her,  by  plunging  still 
deeper  into  deceit,  to  arrive  at  a  clear  knowledge 
of  Philip's  motives  and  intentions,  so  as  thereby 
to  guide  her  own. 

For  a  moment  she  paused  irresolute,  and  then 
the  evil  desire  conquered — Mrs.  Breynton  opened 
the  letter.  It  seemed  to  have  been  written  at 
various  times,  the  first  date  being  many  weeks 
back. 

"Eleanor!"  it  began— and  the  handwriting, 
which  often  betrays  what  words  succeed  in  con- 
cealing, was  tremulous  and  illegible:  "you 
said  one  day — that  soft  spring  morning,  do  you 
remember? — when  we  stood  together  in  the 
window,  looking  on  the  palace-lawn — your  hand 
on  my  shoulder,  and  my  arm  encircling  you,  as 
it  had  a  right  to  do  then — you  said  that  we  must 
have  no  secrets  from  one  another ;  that  we  must 
never  suffer  the  faintest  shadow  to  rise  up  be- 
tween us.  There  has  been  none  until  now '. 
Eleanor !  dearest — still  dearest — shall  I  tell  yor 
what  is  on  my  spirit?  A  trouble — a  doubt — 
idle,  perhaps  wrong,  and  yet  it  weighs  me  down 
heavily.  I  heard,  last  night,  by  chance,  a  few 
words  that  I  would  only  have  smiled  at,  but  for 
your  long  silence,  and  your  departure  from  En- 
gland. You  have  gone,  as  I  understand,  and 
without  informing  me.  Was  this  quite  right, 
my  Eleanor?  Still,  there  may  have  been  a 
reason.  My  aunt — but  I  will  not  speak  of  her. 
Let  me  come  at  once  to  this  idle  rumor.  They 
say — though  I  do  not  believe  it — that  three  years 
ago — which  must  have  been  at  the  very  time, 
the  blessed  spring-time,  when  I  first  told  you 
how  precious  was  your  love — another  did  the 
same.  In  short,  that  you  were  wooed — willingly 
wooed — by  a  Mr.  Paul  Lynedon,  whom  you  met 
at  Summerwood.  Why  did  you  never  speak  of 
this  acquaintance — for,  of  course  he  was  nothing 
more?  You  could  not — no,  my  Eleanor,  my 
all-pure,  all-true  Eleanor ! — you  could  not  have 
deceived  me,  when  you  confessed  that  I — such 
as  I  am,  inferior  in  outward  qualities  to  many, 
and  doubtless  to  this  Paul  Lynedon,  if  report  be 
true — that  I  was  dearer  to  you  than  all  th^ 
world.  How  I  hesitate  over  this  foolish  tale  ! — 
let  me  end  it  at  once.  Well  then,  they  say  this 
same  Lynedon  is  now  with  you  at  Florence  j 
that  fact  is  certainly  true.  As  for  the  rest — 
oh !  my  kind  and  faithful  one,  forgive  me  ;  but 


THE  UGILVIES.    . 


I  cun  anxious,  troubled.  Write,  if  only  one 
line.  Not  that  I  doubt  you — do  not  think  it; 
but  still —  However,  I  must  wait,  for  I  have 
to  find  out  your  address  by  some  means,  before 
I  can  send  this." 

The  letter  continued,  dated  later,  "  You  do 
not  know  what  I  suffer  from  your  silence, 
Eleanor.  I  have  seen  Hugh,  your  brother — 
mine  that  is  to  be.  When  I  thought  so,  his 
car^  sss  greeting  pained  me.  It  was  perhaps 
best  to  keep  our  engagement  so  secret,  and  yet 
it  is  humiliating.  Hugh  chanced  to  speak  of 
your  visit  at  Summerwood  long  ago;  of  Paul 
Lynedon,  too — with  that  name  he  jestingly 
coupled  yours.  He  said  but  few  words  :  for  his 
mind  was  too  full  of  his  approaching  marriage 
— of  course  you  are  aware  of  it.  Eleanor  ?  But 
these  few  words  cut  me  to  the  heart.  And  I 
must  wait  still,  for  Hugh  has  lost  your  address. 
No !  I  can  not  wait — it  is  torture.  I  must  go 

to  L . 

L ,  March  20th. 

"You  see  I  am  here — on  the  very  spot,  so 
sacred — but  I  dare  not  think  of  that  now.  Ele- 
anor, I  have  learned — believe  me,  it  was  by 
mere  chance,  not  by  prying  rudely  into  your 
affairs — I  have  learned  that  this  story  was  not 
all  false,  that  Paul  Lynedon  was  here — with 
you.  And  yet  you  never  told  me !  What  must 
I  think?  There  is  a  cloud  before  me.  I  see 
two  images — Eleanor,  the  Eleanor  of  old — true, 
faithful,  loving,  in  whom  I  trusted,  and  would 
fain  trust  still;  and  the  other  Eleanor,  secretly 
wooed  of  Lynedon,  the  heiress  of  Dean  Sedley — 
you  see  I  know  that  too.  You  need  not  have 
concealed  your  good  fortune  from  me,  but  this 
is  nothing  compared  to  the  other  pang.  I  try 
to  write  calmly ;  yet  if  you  knew —  But  I  will 
rest  until  to-morrow 

"  I  think  the  madness — the  torture  is  over 
now.  All  day — almost  all  night,  I  have  been 
walking  along  our  old  walks ;  by  the  river  and 
beneath  the  cathedral-shadow ;  in  your  very 
footsteps,  Eleanor,  as  it  seemed.  I  can  write 
to  you  now  and  say  what  I  have  to  say — calmly, 
tenderly,  as  becomes  one  to  whom  you  were 
ever  gentle  and  kind.  Eleanor,  if  you  love  this 
man,  and  he  loves  you — he  could  not  but  do 
that ! — then  let  no  promise  once  given  to  me 
stand  between  you  two.  Mr.  Lynedon  is,  as  I 
hear,  not  unworthy  of  you — high-minded,  clever, 
rich,  and  withal  calculated  to  win  any  woman's 
heart.  If  he  has  won  yours  I  have  no  right  to 
murmur.  Perhaps  I  ought  rather  to  rejoice 
that  you  will  be  saved  from  sharing  the  struggles 
and  poverty  which  must  be  my  lot  for  many 
years ;  it  may  be  while  I  live.  Be  happy ;  I  can 
endure  all ;  and  peace  will  come  to  me  in  time. 
Eleanor,  my  Eleanor  ! — let  me  write  the  words 
once  more,  only  once — God  bless  you !  He  only 
knows  how  dearly  I  have  loved,  how  dearly  I  do 
love  you !  But  this  love  can  only  pain  you  now, 
so  I  will  not  utter  it. 

"  One  word  yet.  If  all  this  tale  be  false — 
—though  I  dare  not  trust  myself  to  think  so — 
then,  Eleanor,  have  pity ;  forget  all  I  have  said 
in  my  misery;  fo' give  me — love  me — take  me 
to  your  heart  again,  and  write  speedily,  that  I 
may  once  more  take  to  mine  its  life,  its  joy,  its 
lost  treasure  '  But  if  not,  I  will  count  your 
silence  as  a  mute  farewell.  A  farewell !  and 
'^otvv-oer  us,  who — " 


8C 


Here  two  or  thiee  lines  were  carefully  oblit- 
erated, and  the  letter  ended  abruptly  with  on* 
last  blessing,  the  moui  nful  tenderness  of  which 
would  have  brought  tears  to  any  eyes  but  those 
cold,  hard  ones  that  read  this  sad  record  of 
sorely-tried,  devoted  love. 

Mrs.  Breynton  now  discovered,  like  many 
another  short-sighted  plotter,  that  her  scheme 
had  worked  its  own  ruin.  With  Philip's  final 
parting  from  Eleanor  she  herself  would  lose  her 
remaining  influence  over  his  future  destiny. 
And  such  a  separation  must  be  the  inevitable 
consequence  of  the  silence  which  could  be  the 
only  answer  to  her  nephew's  letter,  unless  she 
made  a  full  confession  of  her  own  duplicity. 
And,  even  then,  what  would  result  ?  A  joyful 
reconciliation,  and  Philip's  speedy  union,  not 
with  the  portionless  Eleanor,  but  with  Dean 
Sedley's  heiress,  thus  forever  excluding  that 
ecclesiastical  life  which  now  more  than  ever 
Mrs.  Breynton  wished  to  force  upon  her  nephew. 
She  was  taken  in  her  own  toils.  She  writhed 
beneath  them :  and,  while  helplessly  she  turned 
over  in  her  mind  some  means  of  escape,  a  knock 
came  to  the  door. 

The  dull  red  mounted  to  her  pale,  withered 
cheek,  as  Mrs.  Breynton,  with  an  instinctive 
impulse,  tottered  across  the  room,  and  hid 
Philip's  letter  in  her  escritoire. 

"  May  I  come  in,  dear  friend?"  murmured  a 
tremulous  voice  outside.  And  Eleanor  entered, 
almost  weeping,  yet  with  a  strange  happiness 
shining  in  her  face  and  mien.  She  had  the 
lawyer's  letter  in  her  hand,  and,  without  speak- 
ing, she  gave  it  to  Mrs.  Breynton. 

The  latter  took  it  mechanically,  glad  of  any 
excuse  to  escape  those  beaming,  innocent  eyes. 
Then  she  rose  up  and  touched  Eleanor's  brow 
with  her  frigid  lips. 

"  I  wish  you  joy,  my  dear.  You  are  a  good 
girl,  and  deserving  of  all  happiness.  Mr.  Sedle} 
was  right  to  leave  his  fortune  where  it  would  be 
worthily  used.  I  hope  that  it  may  prove  a 
blessing  to  you." 

"  It  will !  it  will !  Oh,  how  glad,  how  thank- 
ful I  am!"  cried  the  young  betrothed,  as  her 
thoughts  flew  far  over  land  and  sea  to  where  her 
heart  was.  Thither  she  herself  would  soon 
journey,  to  drive  away  with  one  word,  one  smile, 
the  light  cloud  which  had  come  between  her 
and  Philip ;  and  then  pour  out  all  her  new  store 
at  his  feet,  joyful  that  she  could  bring  to  him  ai 
once  both  riches  and  happiness,  worldly  fortune 
and  faithful  love. 

Mrs.  Breynton  regarded  her  with  a  cold,  sus- 
picious glance. 

"  I  do  not  often  seek  to  know  your  concerns,'" 
she  said,  sharply.  "  Indeed,  I  have  carefully  ab 
stained  from  interfering  with  them  in  any  way  ever 
since  you  have  resided  with  me,  Miss  Ogilvie." 

"Do  not  call  me  thus.  Say  Eleanor,"  v***1 
the  beseeching  answer. 

"  Well,  then,  Eleanor,  may  I  be  excused  k 
asking  why  you  are  so  happy  at  receiving  this 
legacy,  and  what  you  intend  to  do  with  it  ?" 

Eleanor  was  accustomed  to  the  sudden  change 
of  temper  which  the  invalid  often  exhibited ;  but 
now  there  was  a  deeper  meaning  in  Mrs. 
Breynton' s  searching,  irritated  look.  Jt  brought 
a  quick  blush  to  the  girl's  cheek :  and  though 
she  did  not  reply,  she  felt  that  her  silence  wai 
penetrated  and  resented. 


84 


THE  OGILVIES. 


"  Are  yoo  going  to  leave  me,  now  that  you  | 
are  became  an  independent  lady?"  was  the  bit-  | 
ter  question  which  deepened  the  flush  still  more,  j 

"  I  always  was  independent — Hugh  took  care  I 
of  that — and,  if  not,  I  would  have  made  myself 
so,"  said  Eleanor,  rather  proudly.     "But  you  j 
know  I  staid  with  you  by  your  own  wish — and 
my  own,  too,"  she  added,  in  her  gentlest  tone, 
"  to  love  you,  and  be  a  daughter  to  you.     How 
could  you  think  I  should  forget  all  this,  Mrs. 
Breynton?" 

"  Well,  we  will  not  talk  about  that,"  muttered 
the  old  lady,  with  a  slight  change  of  feature. 
"  You  will  stay,  then  ?  Other  people  may  not 
be  more  forgetful  of  kindness  shown  to  their 
old  age  than  was  Bean  Sedley.  You  will  not 
leave  me,  Eleanor?" 

Eleanor  threw  herself  on  her  knees  besid.6 
Mrs.  Breynton's  chair.  "  We  will  not  leave 
you,"  she  whispered.  "  Oh,  dear  friend !  now 
this  good  fortune  has  come,  let  me  be  your  very 
own — your  child — your  niece,  and  forgive  us 
both.  Indeed  we  have  suffered  very  much — I 
and — Philip!"  The  long  forbidden  name  burst 
from  her  lips  accompanied  by  a  flood  of  tears. 
Mrs.  Breynton  started,  and  stood  upright. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  will  marry 
that  ungrateful  fool !  that  beggar  !  who  has  in- 
sulted his  aunt,  and  disgraced  his  family?  Is 
this  the  way  you  show  your  love  for  me  ? 
Eleanor  Ogilvie,  you  may  become  my  niece  if 
you  will,  but  it  shall  be  an  empty  name,  for  you 
shall  never  see  my  face  again.  So  choose  be- 
tween me  and  him  whose  name  you  have  dared 
to  utter.  If  I  hear  it  spoken  in  my  presence 
again,  it  shall  be  echoed  by  my  lips  too,  but  after 
it  shall  come  a  curse  !" 

And  the  aged  woman,  overpowered  by  this 
storm  of  anger,  sank  back  in  her  chair.  Eleanor, 
trembling  in  every  limb,  sprang  up  to  assist  her, 
but  she  pushed  her  aside. 

"  Call  Davis,  I  want  no  one  else.  Go  away." 
Eleanor  dared  not  disobey,  for  she  was  terrified 
at  this  burst  of  passion,  the  first  she  had  ever 
seen  in  the  reserved  and  frigid  Mrs.  Breynton. 
She  summoned  the  maid,  and  was  gliding  out  of 
the  room  quietly,  though  tearfully,  when  the 
old  lady  called  her  back,  and  said,  in  a  low, 
hoarse  whisper — 

"  Remember,  Eleanor,  before  either  of  us  sleep 
this  night,  I  will  know  your  intention  one  way 
or  the  other.  I  must  have  your  promise,  your 
solemn  promise,  to  last  your  life  long  or  if  not — " 

Her  voice  ceased,  but  her  eyes  e  ^pressed  the 
rest.  That  look  of  anger,  doubt,  threatening, 
and  yet  entreaty,  haunted  Eleanor  for  many 
hours. 

How  sore  a  strait  for  one  so  young !  Her 
heart  was  almost  rent  in  twain,  it  was  the  old 
contest,  old  as  the  world  itself— the  strife  between 
duty  and  love. 

Most  writers  on  this  subject  are,  we  think, 
somewhat  in  the  wrong.  They  never  consider 
that  love  is  duty — a  most  solemn  and  holy  duty ! 
He  who,  loving  and  being  beloved,  takes  upon 
himself  this  second  life,  this  glad  burden  of  an- 
other's happiness,  has  no  right  to  sacrifice  it  for 
any  other  human  tie.  It  is  the  fashion  to  extol 
the  self-devotion  of  the  girl  who,  for  parental 
caprice,  or  to  work  out  the  happiness  of  some 
love-lorn  sister,  gives  up  the  chosen  of  her  heart, 
whose  heart's  chosen  she  knows  herself  to  be. 


And  the  man  who,  rather  than  make  a  lovme 
woman  a  little  poorer  in  worldly  wealth — but 
oh,  how  rich  in  affection  ! — proudly  conceals  his 
love  in  his  own  breast,  and  will  not  utter  it — he 
is  deemed  a  self-denying  hero !  Is  this  right  ? 

You  writers  of  moral  fiction,  who  exalt  to  the 
skies  sacrifices  such  as  these,  what  would  you 
say  if  for  any  cause  under  heaven  a  wife  gavt1 
up  a  husband,  or  a  husband  a  wife,  each  doom- 
ing the  other  to  suffering  worse  than  death? 
And  is  the  tie  between  two  hearts  knitted  to 
gether  by  mutual  love  less  strong,  less  sacred, 
before  the  altar-vow  than  after  it  ?  Is  not  the 
breaking  of  such  bond  a  sin,  even  though  no  con- 
secrated ordinance  has  rendered  the  actual  per- 
jury visible  guilt  ? 

When  will  you,  who  with  the  world-wide 
truths  of  the  ideal  show  forth  what  is  noblest  in 
humanity,  boldly  put  forward  this  law  of  a 
morality,  higher  and  more  wholesome  than  all 
your  tales  of  sacrifices  in  filial  and  paternal 
shrines — that  no  power  on  earth  should  stand 
between  two  beings  who  worthily,  holily,  and 
faithfully  love  one  another  ? 

By  this  law  let  us  judge  Eleanor  Ogilvie. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Countess.  Now  I  see 

The  mystery  of  your  loneliness,  and  find 
Your  salt  tears'  head 

Helena.  My  dearest  madam, 

Let  not  your  hate  encounter  with  my  love, 
For  loving  where  you  do. 

SHAKSPKARK. 

IT  was  almost  night  before  Eleanor  was  sum- 
moned  to  the  chamber  of  Mrs.  Breynton.  The 

'  latter  had  already  retired  to  rest ;  and  Davis,  on 

!  quitting  the  room,  whispered  that  her  mistress 
had  seemed  any  thing  but  well  for  several  hours. 
In  truth,  the  thin,  white,  aged  face  that  lay  on 
the  pillow  was  very  different  from  the  stern, 
haughty  countenance  of  old.  If  Mrs.  Breynton 
had  any  idea  of  working  out  her  purpose  by 
touching  Eleanor's  feelings,  she  certainly  went 
the  right  way  to  do  so.  The  poor  girl,  strong 
as  she  had  been  a  few  minutes  before,  felt  weak, 
almost  guilty,  now.  She  sat  down  beside  the 
bed,  silent  and  trembling. 

Mrs.  Breynton  did  not  speak  j  but  the  imperious 
eyes  which  anger  had  lighted  up  with  all  the  fires 
of  youth,  implacably  asked  the  dreaded  question. 
Eleanor  trembled  still  more.  "Dear  Mrs. 
Breynton,  do  not  let  us  talk  now;  it  is  so  late, 
and  you  are  wearied.  Let  me  wait  until  to- 
morrow," she  pleaded. 

"But  /  will  not  wait.     I  never  break  my 

!  word.  I  told  you  I  must  have  an  answer,  and 
I  will,"  said  the  aged  voice,  whose  tones  gained 

|  in    sharpness   where    they   failed    in    strength. 

i  "  Eleanor  Ogilvie,  before  I  sleep  you  must 
promise  that  you  will  not  throw  away  yourself 
and  your  fortune  by  marrying  that  vile,  dishow- 

I  ored,  ungrateful  nephew  of  mine." 

Eleanor's  spirit  was  roused.  Is  there  any 
loving  woman's  that  would  not  be  ?  "  You  are 
mistaken,  Mrs.  Breynton,"  she  said  gently,  but 

i  decisively,  "  such  appellations  are  not  meet  for 

I  Philip  Wychnor." 

**  Ah !  you  dare  utter  his  name  after  what  I 
said  !  Have  you  forgotten  ?" 


THE  OGI.  VIES. 


85 


"I  have  forgotten  all  that  was  wrong — all  that 
you  yourself  would  soon  wish  to  forget.  Why 
do  you  feel  so  bitterly  toward  him  ?  You  whom 
he  loved  so  dearly,  you  who  loved  him  too,  once ; 
and  thought  him  so  good,  and  so  noble-minded 
— as  he  is  still." 

•'It  is  a  lie!  And  you  defend  him  to  my  face!" 
almost  screamed  Mrs.  Breynton. 

"  Because  he  has  no  one  else  to  defend  him. 
And  who  but  I  should  have  a  right  to  do  so?  I, 
who  love  him  and  have  loved  him  since  I  was  a 
girl  ?  I,  who  have  known  every  thought  of  his 
heart — who  am  his  plighted  wife  in  the  sight  of 
Heaven  ?  Oh,  Mrs.  Breynton,  how  can  you  ask 
me  to  give  him  up?" 

The  speech,  begun  with  patient  firmness,  ended 
with  tearful  entreaty.  Even  the  storm  of  invec- 
tive that  had  risen  to  Mrs.  Breynton's  lips,  died 
away  unuttered.  It  might  be,  that  for  the  mo- 
ment she  saw,  in  the  pale,  drooping  face  and 
clasped  hands,  the  likeness  of  Eleanor's  dead 
mother,  with  all  her  struggles  and  sufferings. 
The  harsh  voice  became  a  little  softer,  when  she 
said,  "  You  are  blinded,  Eleanor,  or  you  would 
see  that  it  is  for  your  own  good  I  ask  this.  You 
do  not  give  up  him  ? — he  gives  up  you.  Nay,  do 
not  speak — I  say  he  does.  Where  is  the  honor 
of  a  man  who  keeps  a  young  girl  waiting  for 
him  year  after  year,  bound  by  a  promise,  and 
shut  out  from  the  chance  of  making  a  better 
match  ?"  Mrs.  Breynton  did  not  see  how  Elea- 
nor's lips  curled  at  the  words.  "  A  worthy  lover 
he  is,  who  talks  of  his  sentimental  affection,  and 
forsooth  says  he  is  too  poor  to  marry,  while  by 
his  own  folly  he  chooses  to  remain  so !  This  is 

how  that I  will  not  utter  his  name,  would 

treat  you — until  you  grow  old;  and  then  he 
would  go  and  marry  some  one  younger,  lovelier, 
and  richer.  It  is  like  men;  they  are  all  the 
same!"  muttered  the  dean's  widow,  repeating 
the  usual  lament  of  narrow-minded  women,  who, 
mean  themselves,  have  had  no  power  to  win  as 
friends  or  lovers  any  but  the  meanest  of  the  other 
sex.  Thus  they  never  know  how  high  and  noble 
— ay,  and  gentle  too,  is  the  nature  of  a  truly  good 
aiuTpure-hearted  man. 

The  old  lady  paused  a  moment  to  look  at  the 
young  creature  before  her.  Eleanor  had  risen 
and  stood  by  the  bed-side,  not  weeping",  but  com- 


"Mrs.  Breynton,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  quiet 
tone,  "you  have  been  ever  kind  to  me,  and  I  am 
grateful.  Besides,  you  are  dear  to  me  for  your 
own  sake,  and  for  his,  whose  name  I  will  not 
speak  if  it  offends  you.  But  I  can  go  no  farther. 
It  pains  me  very  much  to  hear  you  talk  in  this 
way.  I  owe  you  all  respect,  but  I  also  owe  some 
to  him  whose  wife  I  have  promised  to  be." 

"  And  you  will — in  spite  of  all — you  will  be 
his  wife?" 

"Yes!" 

The  word  was  scarcely  above  a  breath,  but 
it  said  enough.  Love  had  give  to  the  timid, 
gentle-hearted  girl  a  strength  that  was  able  to 
stand  firm  against  the  world. 

To  that  "Yes!"  there  came  no  answer.  It 
controlled  even  .the  outburst  of  Mrs.  Breynton's 
wrath.  She  lay  silent,  unable  to  to  remove  her 
eyes  from  this  young  girl,  so  meek  and  yet  so 
resolute — so  patient,  yet  so  brave.  But  though 
restrained  L/  this  irresistible  influence,  the  storm 
of  passion  raged  within  until  it  shook  every  fiber 


of  the  aged  frame.  It  seemed  as  though  in 
her  life's  decline  Mrs.  Breynton  was  destined 
tc  feel  the  vehement  passions  which  in  her  dull 
youth  and  frigid  middle  age  had  never  been 
awakened. 

Eleanor,  startled  by  her  silence,  yet  drawing 
from  it  a  faint  ray  of  hope,  gathered  courage. 
Kneeling  down  by  the  bed-side,  she  would  have 
taken  one  of  Mrs.  Breynton's  hands,  but  they 
were  too  tightly  clenched  together. 

"  Dear  friend,  my  mother's 'friend  !"  she  cried, 
"  do  not  try  me  so  bitterly.  If  you  knew  what 
it  costs  me  to  say  this  one  word — and  yet  I  can 
not  but  say  it.  How  can  I  give  up  my  own 
Philip  ?"  And  in  the  sorrow  and  struggle  of 
the  moment  she  spoke  to  Mrs.  Breynton  as  in 
her  maiden  timidity  she  had  never  spoken  to 
any  human  being.  "  Has  he  not  been  my  play- 
fellow, my  friend,  these  many  years  ?  Did  not 
you  yourself  first  teach  me  to  love  him,  by  tell- 
ing me  how  good  he  was,  and  by  bringing  us  con- 
stantly together,  boy  and  girl  as  we  were?" 

"I  did,  I  did.  I  wished  to  atone  to  poor  Isa- 
bel's child  for  the  wrong  done  to  her  mother. 
Fool  that  I  was,  to  trust  the  son  of  such  a 
father !"  muttered  Mrs.  Breynton,  almost  inaud- 
ibly. 

Not  hearing,  or  not  noticing  the  words,  Elea- 
nor went  on  with  her  earnest  pleading. 

"  How  could  we  help  loving  one  another ;  or, 
loving,  how  could  we  by  your  will  break  at  once 
through  these  dear  ties,  and  never  love  each 
other  again  ?  Mrs.  Breynton,  I  owe  you  much, 
but  I  owe  Philip  more.  He  chose  me;  he  gave 
me  his  true,  noble  heart ;  and  I  will  keep  it  faith - 
,  fully  and  truly.  He  loves  me,  he  trusts  me ;  and 
I  will  never  forsake  him  while  I  live." 

Mrs.  Breynton,  overwhelmed  by  the  pent-up 
|  secrets  which  convulsed  her  breast,  saw  her 
last  chance  of  regaining  power  fading  from  her, 
and  yet  she  dared  not  speak.  Goaded  on  almost 
to  madness,  she  gazed  on  that  young  face,  now 
!  grown  serene  with  the  shining  of  the  perfect 
j  faith  and  perfect  love  which  "  casteth  out  fear." 
It  did  not  shrink  even  from  those  gleaming  eyes, 
wherein  the  wild  fires  of  stormiest  youth  con- 
tended with  the  dimness  of  age. 

"Eleanor  Ogilvie,"  she  said,  hoarsely,  "whr< 
do  you  intend  to  do  with  this  fortune?" 

"  To  wait  until  I  again  meet  him  who  has  a 
|  right  to  all  my  love — all  my  riches ;  and  then, 
if  he  so  wills  it,  to  make  both  his  own." 

At  these  words,  Mrs.  Breynton,  driven  to 
desperation  alike  by  wrath  and  fear  of  discovery, 
snatched  blindly  at  any  means  of  keeping  asun- 
der, for  a  time  at  least,  those  two  to  whom  a 
few  words  of  heart-confidence  would  reveal  all 
her  own  machinations. 

"  You  are  mad — deceived,"  cried  she,  vehe- 
mently. "  How  do  you  know  that  he  remembers 
you  still?  What  does  your  brother's  letter  say  ? 
— that  he  is  gay,  prosperous." 

"  There  is  nothing  in  that  to  pain  me.  Philip 
happy,  loves  me  as  well  as  Philip  sorrowful/ 
she  murmured,  saying  the  last  words  in  a  musing 
tone. 

"  Then  why  does  he  not  show  his  love  ?  Why 
does  he  not  come  and  claim  you  to  share  his 
fortune?  But  I  tell  you,  Eleanor  Ogilvie,  you 
are  blinded  by  this  folly.  I  know — "  and  for 
the  first  time  her  lips  shrank  not  from  a  deliber- 
ate lie;  "I  know  more  than  yon  do  of  hi.s 


THE   OGILVIES. 


ness  aud  nnworthiness.     He  only  waits  an  ex- 
cuse to  cast  you  off.     He  has  said  so." 

Eleanor  shrunk  back  a  little,  and  a  slight  pain 
smote  her  heart.  "  Will  you  tell  me  how  you 
learned  this?"  she  asked. 

"No,  no,  I  will  not  tell  you  any  thing,"  hast- 
ily said  the  conscience-stricken  woman.  "  They 
who  informed  me  spoke  truth,  as  I  firmly  be- 
lieve." 

"  But  /  do  not — I  ought  not."  And  once 
more  the  beautiful  light  of  confiding  love  re- 
turned to  the  face  of  the  young  betrothed.  "  Who 
knows  Philip  Wychnor  so  well  as  I  ?  There- 
fore it  is  I  who  should  trust  him  most.  And  I 
do  trust  him  !" 

"Then  you  turn  away  from  your  mother's 
friend,  who  would  have  been  a  mother  to  you. 
You  go  and  leave  her  without  a  child  to  com- 
fort her  old  age,"  said  Mrs.  Breynton. 

"What  shall  I  do?— what  ought  I  to  do?" 
cried  Eleanor,  her  gentle  heart  wrung  to  the 
very  core  by  this  conflict. 

"Go  away — go  away.  I  never  wish  to  see 
your  face  again!  and  the  voice  rose  sharper  and 
sharper.  Mrs.  Breynton  lifted  herself  up  in 
bed,  with  flashing  eyes  and  out-stretched  hands, 
which  she  shook  with  a  threatening  gesture,  as 
though  the  malediction  which  Philip  had  scarce 
escaped  were  about  to  fall  on  his  affianced. 

Eleanor,  mute  with  horror,  instinctively  mov- 
ed toward  the  door;  but  on  reaching  it,  she 
stood  irresolute.  It  was  one  of  those  crises 
which  sometimes  occur  in  life,  when  right  and 
wrong  seem  confounded,  when  we  feel  ourselves 
driven  blindly  along  without  power  to  say, 
"  This  is  the  true  way — I  will  walk  therein,  God 
helping  me."  Poor  Eleanor !  in  either  course 
she  took,  all  seemed  darkness,  suffering,  and, 
still  more,  sin.  Strong  as  she  was  in  her  faith- 
ful devotion  to  Philip,  when  she  thought  of  Phil- 
ip's aunt  she  felt  almost  as  if  she  had  done 
wrong.  From  an  impulse,  more  than  a  settled 
intent,  she  laid  her  hand  again  on  the  door, 
paused  a  moment,  and  then  re-entered  the  cham- 
ber. 

Mrs.  Breynton  was  leaning  forward,  with  her 
face  on  her  hands :  the  storm  of  passion  had 
spent  itself,  and  tears  were  dropping  fast  be- 
tween her  poor,  thin  fingers.  Eleanor's  heart 
sprang  toward  the  desolate  woman  with  intense 
tenderness.  She  put  her  arms  round  her;  she 
laid  the  aged  head  on  her  young  bosom — just  as 
she  had  used  to  rest  her  own  mother's  during 
many  a  long  night  of  suffering — as  she  had  done 
on  that  last  night  until  the  moment  when  suffer- 
ing merged  into  the  peace  of  death.  The  action 
awoke  all  these  memories  like  a  tide.  The  or- 
phan felt  drawn  with  a  fullness  of  love  to  her  who 
had  been  the  friend  of  the  dead ;  and  the  mother- 
less and  the  childless  clung  together  in  a  close 
embrace. 

"  You  will  not  send  me  away  from  you,  Mrs. 
Breynton  ?"  whispered  the  girl. 

'Never!"  was  the  answer.  "And  you  will 
stay  with  me,  Eleanor,  my  child ;  that  is,  until 
—no,  I  can  not  talk  about  it  yet — but  in  time — 
in  time — " 

Mrs.  Breynton  said  no  more;  and  this  was  the 
only  explanation  to  which  they  came.  Yet  El- 
eanor felt  satisfied  that  a  change  had  passed 
over  the  mind  of  Philip's  aunt— slight,  indeed, 
but  greater  than  she  had  ever  dared  to  hope! 


From  that  night  the  icy  barrier  seemed  broken 
down  between  them.  Though  Mrs.  Breynton 
never  spoke  of  her  nephew,  still  she  bore  at  times 
the  chance  mention  of  his  name ;  and  often,  even 
after  it  had  been  uttered,  she  would  regard  El- 
eanor with  a  vague  tenderness,  and  seem  on  the 
point  of  saying  something  which  yet  never  rose 
to  her  lips.  This  filled  the  young  gi;  1  with  hap- 
py hope ;  so  that  she  bore  patiently  the  long  si- 
lence between  herself  and  Philip,  waiting  until 
her  return  home  should  solve  all  doubt,  and  show 
him  that  even  this  temporary  alienation  was  a 
sacrifice  for  his  sake,  in  order  that  the  work  of 
the  peace-maker  might  be  finished  with  joy. 

Eleanor  never  guessed  from  how  much  of  re- 
morse sprang  the  new  gentleness  which  the 
dean's  widow  continually  showed  toward  her. 
After  a  little  longer  sojourn  abroad,  Mrs.  Breyn- 
ton began  restlessly  to  long  after  home,  instanc- 
ing the  necessity  for  Eleanor's  being  at  L to 

look  after  her  own  little  fortune.  The  young 
girl  prepared  gladly  for  the  journey,  and  tried  to 
see  in  the  reason  urged  only  an  excuse  framed 
by  this  still  haughty  spirit,  willing  and  yet  half- 
ashamed  to  make  the  concession  that  would  give 
so  much  happiness. 

And  with  such  diverse  feelings  did  Mrs. 
Breynton  and  her  young  companion  again  set 
foot  in  L 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

Most  men 

Are  cradled  into  poesy  by  wrong  : 
They  learn  in  suffering  what  they  teach  in  song. 

SHELLEY 
Life  is  real— life  is  earnest, 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal : 
'Dust  thou  art — to  dust  relurnest,' 
Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

LONSFILLOW. 

"  So  your  young  bridesmaid  has  really  follow 
ed  your  example,  and  is  gone  on  her  honeymoon 
trip,"  said  Mrs.  Penny thorne,  as  she  nervously 
prepared  herself  for  the  martyrdom  of  a  draw- 
ing-room tete-a-tete  with  her  stylish  daughter-in- 
law.  This  was  after  the  usual  Sunday  dinner — 
the  hebdomadal  sacrifice  on  the  family  shrine — 
which  its  new  member  always  considered  a 
"  horrid  bore." 

"Yes,  indeed,  and  has  come  back  again,  too," 
answered  Mrs.  Frederick,  throwing  herself  on  a 
sofa  by  the  window,  while  the  elder  Mrs.  Pen- 
nythorne  sat  bolt  upright  by  her  side  on  one  of 
the  frail,  comfortless  fabrics  which  her  husband's 
omnipotent  taste  had  provided  for  the  drawing- 
room  chairs.  "  They  made  a  short  wedding  tour, 
did  Hugh  and  Katharine — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ogilvie, 
I  mean ;  but  one  can't  get  over  old  habits,  and 
my  cousins  and  I  were  such  friends,  especially 
Hugh,"  smipered  the  young  bride. 

"  Were  you,  indeed  !  oh,  of  course,  being  re- 
lations," absently  replied  Mrs.  Penny  thorne. 
She  made  the  quietest  and  most  submissive 
mother-in-law  in  the  world  to  Isabella ;  indeed, 
to  tell  the  truth,  she  was  considerably  afraid  of  \ 
her  son;s  gay,  fashionable  wife.  .  "They  seemed 
both  very  nice  young  people;  I  hope  they  will 
be  happy,"  added  she,  in  a  vain  attempt  to  con- 
verse. 

"  Happy  ?  Oh,  I  suppose  so !  She  is  not  the 
best  of  tempers,  to  be  sure ;  and  I  don't  thint 


THE  OGILV1ES. 


87 


'lugh  would  hare  married  her  if  he  had  not  been 
dnigged  into  it,,  so  to  speak.  He  used  to  pay 
me  a  great  deal  of  attention  once." 

Mrs.  Pennythorne  opened  her  eyes  a  little 
wider  than  usual.  She  thought  this  style  of 
conversation  rather  odd  in  her  son's  wife,  but  it 
was  perhaps  the  way  of  fashionable  young  ladies. 
She  merely  said  "Indeed!"  and  looked  out  of 
the  window,  watching  the  people  of  the  square 
going  to  evening  service,  and  listening  to  the 
Heavy,  monotonous  tone  of  the  solitary  bell. 

"How  disagreeable  it  must  be  to  live  near 
a  church !  I  hate  that  ding-dong,  it  is  so  annoy- 
ing; especially  when  it  tolls  for  a  funeral."  said 
Isabella. 

Mrs.  Pennythorne  shivered  perceptibly. 

"  Oh,  we  have  not  many  funerals  here  j  it  is  a 
very  healthy  neighborhood." 

There  was  a  silence,  during  which  the  dull 
seund  of  some  one  coughing  feebly  was  heard  in 
the  next  room. 

"  Can  you  find  a  book  for  a  minute  or  two, 
while  I  go  and  speak  to  Leigh  ?  I  always  do 
so  after  dinner,"  said  the  mother,  meekly  apolo- 
gizing. 

"  Oh  yes  !  And,  by-the-by,  that  reminds  me 
that  I  have  not  yet  asked  after  Leigh.  He  is 
much  as  usual,  I  suppose?" 

"A  little  better,  we  think.  He  likes  those 
drives  in  your  pony-chaise  so  much,  and  they  are 
Sure  to  do  him  good." 

"  Well,  he  can  have  the  carriage  any  morning. 
I  never  stir  out  till  after  luncheon.  Only  he 
must  not  go  too  far,  so  as  to  tire  out  the  horses 
before  I  want  them." 

"  There  is  no  fear  of  that.  Leigh  can  not  take 
long  rides.  He  does  not  get  strong  very  fast. 
The  doctor  says  we  must  not  expect  it  at  pres- 
ent. But  it  is  such  fine  May  weather  now,  and 
he  i«s  really  improving,"  said  Mrs.  Pennythorne, 
moving  from  the  room. 

Isabella  looked  after  b,3r,  and  tossed  her  head. 
"People  are  so  blind  when  they  choose,"  said 
she  to  herself.  Then  glancing  down  at  her 
splendid,  gay-tinted  satin,  "How  provoking  it 
will  be  to  put  it  aside  for  horrible,  unbecoming 
black j  and  one  can't  take 'to  one's  wedding- 
dresses  twelve  months  after  marriage.  What  a 
nuisance  it  is — that  boy  dying !" 

And  during  the  ten  minutes  of  solitude  Mrs. 
Frederick  occupied  herself  in  considering  wheth- 
er it  would  not  be  advisable  to  give  her  first 
evening  party  at  once,  without  postponing  it  for 
the  usual  round  of  bridal  entertainments. 

"  One  may  as  well  make  the  most  of  the  time, 
.for  one  never  knows  what  may  happen,"  moral- 
ized the  young  wife,  whose  whole  life  of  vain 
heartlessness  was  a  contradiction  to  the  say- 
ing. 

Mrs.  Pennythorne  returned  to  her  seat  by  the 
window ;  and  the  elder  and  younger  matron  tried 
to  keep  up  a  desultory  talk,  broken  by  two  or 
three  ill-concealed  yawns  from  the  latter. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  one  always  gets  so 
stupid  at  this  time  of  the  evening ;  at  least  I  do. 
t  quite  hate  the  twilight,"  observed  Isabella. 

"  We  might  shut  it  out  and  have  candles,  only 
I  promised  Leigh  that  I  would  watch  for  Mr. 
Wychnor  round  the  square — he  never  misses 
coming  on  a  Sunday  evening,  you  know,  and  the 
boy  is  so  glad  to  see  him.  Perhaps  you  would 
»ot  mind  waiting  a  little  without  lights,  just  to 


humor  poor  Ltgh?i5  observed  the  mother-in- 
law,  humbly. 

"  Oh,  dear,  *v> !  don't  inconvenience  yourself  on 
my  account,"  languidly  answered  Mrs.  Fred- 
erick ;  and  after  inwardly  resolving  to  make  one 
last  attempt  to  keep  "  that  nice  young  Wychnor" 
by  her  side  in  the  drawing-room,  instead  of  suf- 
fering him  to  spend  nearly  the  whole  evening,  as 
usual,  in  Leigh's  room,  Isabella  began  to  dilate 
on  her  favorite  subject,  "  my  cousins,  the  Ogil- 
vies" — their  great  wealth  and  connections — the 
beautiful  villa  that  Hugh  and  Katharine  had 
taken  in  the  Regent's  Park,  and  the  elegant  and 
costly  style  in  which  it  was  furnished.  Con- 
tented with  monosyllabic  answers,  Mrs.  Frederick 
had  thus  gone  on  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  when 
her  mother-in-law  interrupted  her  with  the  in- 
formation that  she  must  go  and  tell  Leigh  that 
Mr.  Wychnor  was  turning  the  corner  of  the 
square.  Thereupon  Isabella  smoothed  her  dress, 
pulled  her  ringlets  out  properly,  and  awaited 
Mr.  Wychnor's  entrance.  The  preparation  was 
vain,  for  he  went  at  once  to  Leigh's  room. 

Thither  we  will  follow  him,  and  gladly  too, 
having  little  love  for  scenes  wherein  move  such 

?ayly  bedizened   puppets   as  Mrs.   Frederick 
eunythorne. 

'•  It  is  better  to  go  to  the  house  of  mourning 
than  to  the  house  of  feasting."  And  better,  far 
better,  to  stand  face  to  face  with  the  struggling, 
the  sorrowful,  nay,  even  the  dying,  than  to  dwell 
entirely  amidst  a  world  of  outside  show.  More 
precious  is  it  to  trace  the  earnest  throbs  of  the 
most  wounded  heart,  than  to  live  among  those 
human  machines  to  whom  existence  is  one  daily 
round  of  dullness  and  frivolity.  Looking  on 
these,  Youth,  with  its  bursting  tide  of  soul  and 
sense,  shrinks. back  aghast — "Oh,  God!"  rises 
the  prayer — "  Let  me  not  be  as  these !  Rather 
let  my  pulses  swell  like  a  torrent,  pour  them- 
selves out,  and  cease — let  heart  and  brain  work 
their  work,  even  to  the  perishing  of  both — be 
my  life  short  like  a  weaver's  shuttle,' but  let  it 
be  a  life,  full,  strong,  rich — perchance  a  day 
only,  but  one  of  those  days  of  heaven,  which  are 
as  a  thousand  years  !" 

When  Philip  Wychnor  came  into  Leigh's 
room  the  boy  had  fallen  asleep — as  he  often  did 
in  the  twilight.  He  roused  himself,  however,  to 
give  his  friend  a  welcome ;  but  his  mother  and 
Philip  persuaded  him  to  rest  again  until  tea. 
Just  then  the  sharp  call  of  "  Gillie,  my  dear," 
resounded  through  the  house,  and  Mrs.  Penny- 
thorne vanished. 

Philip  Wychnor  sat  in  the  growing  darkness, 
holding  the  feeble  hand  in  his,  and  listening  to 
the  breathing  of  the  sleeper.  It  is  a  solemn 
thing,  this  vigil  beside  those  over  whom,  day 
after  day,  the  shadow  of  death  is  creeping,  whom 
we  seem  to  be  ourselves  leading — walking  step 
by  step  with  them  to  the  very  entrance  of  the 
dark  valley.  Strange  it  is  to  think  that  there 
we  must  leave  them — needing  our  guidance  and 
support  no  more ;  that  in  one  day,  one  hour,  the 
poor  frail  ones,  who  have  for  months  clung  help- 
lessly to  us  for  tendance,  almost  existence,  will 
be  bodiless  spirits,  strong,  glorious,  mighty ! 
looking  down,  it  may  be,  with  divine  pity  on  our 
weak  humanity.  TheA,  perchance,  with  a  power 
whose  limits  are  yet  unrevealed — those  to  whom 
we  ministered  may  become  themselves  glad 
ministrants  to  us. 


88 


THE  OGILVIKS. 


As  the  young  man,  in  all  the  strength  of  his 
>outh,  sat  beside  that  scarcely-breathing  form,  ; 
where  clay  and  spirit  seemed  linked  together  by  .{ 
a  thread  so  fine  that  each  moment  might  dissever  !: 
then  for  eternity — he  felt  a  strange  awe  come 
over  him. 

There  are  many  phases  which  the  human  soul 
must  go  through  before  it  can  attain  even  that 
approximation  to  the  divine,  which  is  possible  on 
earth.  We  cling  to  prop  after  prop ;  we  follow 
longingly  whichever  of  earth's  beautiful  and 
blessed  things  seems  most  to  realize  that  perfect . 
ideal  which  we  call  happiness.  Of  these  joys 
the  dearest,  the  truest,  the  most  satisfying,  is 
that  wk  ih  lifts  us  out  of  ourselves,  and  unites 
us  in  heart  and  soul — ay,  and  intellect,  too,  for 
the  spirit  must  find  its  mate  to  make  the  union 
perfect — with  some  other  human  being.  This 
blessed  bond  we  call  Love.  But  the  chances 
of  fortune  come  between  us  and  our  desire ; — 
the  light  passes,  and  we  go  on  our  way  in  dark- 
ness. There  are  times,  when  we  must  stand 
alone,  and  see  earth's  deepest  and  most  real  joys 
float  by  like  shadows.  Alas  !  we  can  but  stretch 
out  our  arms  toward  that  Infinite,  which  alone 
is  able  to  fill  the  longings  of  an  immortal  spirit. 
Then,  with  our  wounded  souls  lying  naked  and 
open  before  the  Beholder  of  all,  we  look  yearn- 
ingly toward  the  eternal  and  divine  life,  com- 
plete, unchangeable,  and  cry  with  solemn, 
thankful  voice,  "0  God,  Thy  fullness  is  sufficient 
for  me;  0  God,  Thy  love  is  an  all-boundless 
store." 

Through  this  portion  of  his  inward  life  had 
Philip  passed.  But  while  learning  the  deepest 
mystery  of  all,  he  also  gained  other  knowledge, 
other  power.  It  seemed  as  though  his  intellect 
had  sprung  up,  strong  and  mighty,  from  the 
ashes  of  the  fire  which  had  consumed  his  heart. 
Perhaps  the  same  would  be  the  secret  history 
of  almost  every  poet-soul,  whose  words  go  forth 
like  lightning;  man  heeding  not  the  stormy 
cloud  and  tempest  from  whence  it  leaps  forth. 
Philip's  world-ideal  had  been  the  woman  he  loved ; 
when  that  became  a  dream,  as  he  now  deemed 
it  was,  all  human  love  seemed  to  pass  out  of  that 
world  with  her.  The  heart's  life  shut  out — the 
soul's  life  began. 

Within  his  spirit  there  dawned  a  new  energy; 
an  irresistible  power,  to  work,  to  will,  to  do. 
The  individual  sense  was  merged  in  the  univer- 
sal; he  felt  the  deep  fountain  of  his  genius 
springing  up  within  him.  After  a  season  of 
wrestling  with  that  strong  agony  of  crushed 
love — which,  thank  God!  no  human  being  can 
know  more  than  once — he  arose,  ready  to  fight 
the  glorious  battle,  to  begin  the  blessed  toil  of 
those  great  spirits  whom  Heaven  sends  as  lights 
unto  the  world. 

He  had  been-  called  an  author — now  he  be- 
came one.  He  joined  that  little  band  of  true 
brothers  to  whom  authorship  is  a  sacred  thing ; 
a  lay  priesthood,  which,  wearing  the  garb  of 
ordinary  fraternity,  carries  beneath  it  evermore 
an  inward  consecration.  Philip  wrote  not  with 
the  haughty  assumption  of  an  apostle  among 
men :  sometimes  in  his  writings  the  deepest 
truth,  the  purest  lore,  lay  coiled,  serpent-like 
(we  use  the  ancient  emblem  of  wisdom  for  wis- 
dom itself),  beneath  garlands  of  flowers.  But 
ne  never  forgot  his  mission,  though  the  word, 
sften  so  falsely  assumed,  had  not  once  passed 


his  lips.  God's  truest  messenger  is 
not  the  Pharisee  who  harangues  in  the  temple, 
but  the  Publican  who  passes  unnoticed  by  r,ne 
way-side.  Yet  Philip  Wychnor  had  his  share 
of  honor  and  repute.  Every  day  his  fame  was 
growing ;  but  there  was  one  difference  between 
his  present  life  and  the  past.  The  work  itself 
brought  pleasure,  at  least  that  sense  of  duty  ful- 
filled which  is  likest  pleasure ;  the  mere  fame 
brought  none.  He  had  no  care  whether  it  came 
or  not.  For  two  ends  only  is  renown  precious  : 
for  ambition's  sake  and  for  love's.  Philip  had 
neither ;  life  to  him  seemed  now  made  not  for 
happiness  but  for  worthy  toil.  He  stood  in  the 
world's  vineyard,  not  as  a  joyful  gatherer  of  fruit, 
but  as  a  laborer,  patient  and  active,  yet  looking 
toward  the  day's  close  as  toward  its  chiefest  joy. 
Was  then  this  brave  heart,  worthily  struggling 
with  and  surmounting  fate,  utterly  without  mem- 
ories of  the  sweet  past  ?  Was  it  grown  so  -indif- 
!  ferent  that  oblivion  brought  no  pain  ?  Let  many 
|  a  fearful  hour  of  suffering — in  the  dead  of  night, 
!  at  intervals  in  the  day's  toil,  or  in  seasons  of 
good  fortune,  wherein  there  was  no  sharer,  and 
of  fame  become  all  joyless  now — let  these  tell 
that  the  young  man  yet  unearned  over  his  buried 
dream. 

Perchance  tliis  sorrow  oppressed  him  even* 
j  when  on  this  n  ght  he  sat  in  the  darkness  beside 
the  sick  boy.  Leigh's  deep  sleep  left  Philip's 
thoughts  that  liberty  of  range  which  is  bliss  to 
'  the  happy — to  the  suffering,  or  those  who  have 
j  suffered,  torture  indeed.  The  young  man  sighed 
heavily  many  times. 

"Are  you  unhappy,  Philip?"  whispered  a 
;  faint  voice,  and  the  damp  fingers  he  held  twined 
feebly  round  his  own. 

"  My  dear  Leigh  !  I  thought  that  you  were 
asleep." 

"  No,  not  for  some  minutes ;  but  I  fancied 
you  were,  until  those  deep  sighs  came.  We 
never  sigh  when  we  are  asleep,  you  know." 

"  Very  seldom  :  there  is  no  sorrow  in  sleep," 
murmured  Philip,  as  if  his  words  had  a  deeper 
!  sense  than  their  apparent  one.  He  had  some- 
jhow  caught  a  little  of  this  habit  of  twofold 
speech  from  his  constant  associate  and  friend, 
David  Drysdale. 

"  What  are  you  saying  about  sorrow  ?"  asked 
i  Leigh.  "  What  have  you  been  thinking  of, 
|  Philip?  Not  that  old  grief  of  which  you  never 
speak ;  and  which,  when  I  found  out  that  it  was 
in  your  heart,  you  said  I  could  not  understand  ? 
;  I  can  understand  many  things  better  now  ;  per- 
,  haps  I  might  this.  And  you  often  say,  I  do  you 
good  at  times." 

"  Always,  always,  my  boy  !  Only  let  us  talk 
of  something  else  now.  Be  content,  Leigh ; 
indeed  I  am  so  too,  as  content  as  one  can  be  in 
this  sorrowful  world." 

"  Is  it  so  sorrowful,  this  world  of  yours  ?" 
"  Why  do  you  say  'yours,'  Leigh  ?" 
"  Because — because — you  know  why,  Philip," 
and  the  voice   became   feebler,  more   solemn. 
There  was  no  answer ;  Philip  could  not  breathe 
the   lie   of  hope    to  the   spirit   which    seemed 
already  spreading  its  pure  wings.     Both  were 
silent  for  awhile,  but  the  mute  hand-clasp  be- 
tween them  appeared  to  say,  "I  go  !" — "Yea, 
thou  goest,  blessed  one  !" 

Leigh  was  the  first  who  spoke.  "I  am  not 
afraid,  scarcely  sorry — and  yot  perhaps — Olx 


THE  OGILVIES. 


89 


Philip  !  if  you  knew  how  often  in  the  old  times 
I  wished,  earnestly  wished,  that  it  might  be  thus 
with  me — that  I  might  get  away  from  that  dull 
life  of  torment.  And  now  when  the  wish  comes 
true,  I  sometimes  have  thought  that  I  should 
like  to  stay  a  little  longer,  that  I  might  do  some- 
thing to  atone  for  these  eighteen  wasted  years. 
You  would  not  think  me  thus  old,  Philip,  child- 
ish as  I  am  ?  yet,  at  times  I  feel  so  weary,  so 
worn — it  might  have  been  a  life  of  eighty  years 
which  I  lay  down.  Then  again,  even  when  my 
body  is  weakest,  my  soul  feels  so  clear  and 
strong,  that  I  shrink  from  this  coming  quiet — 
this  deep  rest." 

"Not  all  rest,"  answered  Philip,  softly.  "  God 
never  meant  it  so  •  He.  the  Creator,  the  Sus- 
tainer,  knows  no  idle  repose.  If  either  shall  we, 
His  servants.  We  shall  work  His  will — how, 
we  can  not  tell,  but  we  shall  do  it,  and  rejoice  in 
the  doing.  Think,  Leigh,  how  glorious  to  pass 
from  weakness  to  strength — from  suffering  to 
action;  perhaps  to  be  heaven's  messengers 
throughout  the  wide  universe ;  feeling  nearer 
Him,  because,  in  our  measure,  we  share  His 
divinest  attribute — that  of  dispensing  good." 

In  the  darkness,  Philip  could  not  see  the  face 
of  the  almost  dying  boy;  but  he  felt  the  hand 
which  he  still  held,  drawn  nearer  to  the  other, 
and  both  clasped,  as  in  prayer — his  own  still  be- 
tween them.  It  seemed*that  even  then  Leigh 
could  not  relinquish  the  hand  which  had  brought 
light  into  his  darkness,  and  guided  him  on  until  he 
stood  at  the  death-portal,  looking  thereon  calmly 
and  without  fear. 

"All  this  is  joyful — so  joyful!"  Leigh  said, 
after  a  pause.  ;i  Philip,  your  words  are  like  an 
angel's — they  always  were  so  to  me ;  and  some 
time — not  now,  but  you  know  when — will  you 
tell  my  mother  all  this  ?  and  say  how  it  was 
that  I  never  spoke  thus  to  her,  because  she 
could  not  bear  it.  But  you  will  remember  it 
all,  and  it  will  sound  as  if  I  said  it — not  in  my 
poor,  weak,  childish  words,  but  with  the  voice 
which  I  shall  have  then." 

Philip  promised.  A  little  while  longer  they 
talked  in  this  calm,  solemn  strain,  and  then  the 
mother  came  in  with  a  light. 

"How  well  Leigh  looks  to-night !"  she  said. 
And  truly  there  was  a  strange  spiritual  beauty 
over  the  boy's  face.  "  He  seems  so  quiet  and 
happy  !  You  always  do  him  good,  Mr.  Wych- 
nor,"  gratefully  added  Mrs.  Penny thorne. 

And  then  through  the  open  drawing-room 
door  came  Mrs.  Frederick's  titter,  and  her 
husband's  loud  chatter,  while  above  all  sounded 
Mr.  Pennythorne's  decisive  tone. 

"  Cillie,  my  dear,  don't  forget  to  tell  that  ex- 
cellent Mr.  Wychnor  that  we  can  not  do  without 
him  any  longer ;  send  your  ever-grumbling  boy 
to  bed,  and  ask  Mr.  Wychnor  to  come  into  the 
drawing-room." 

"Yes,  do  go,  Philip,"  whispered  Leigh,  "it 
will  please  my  father — he  thinks  so  much  of  you 
now."  He  did  indeed;  for  Mr.  Pennythorne 
was  a  very  Ghebir  in  his  way — his  face  always 
turned  worshipingly  toward  the  rising  sun. 

Philip  assented — as  he  would  have  done  to 
any  wish  of  poor  Leigh's.  After  an  affectionate  j 
good-night,  and  a  promise  to  come  next  day,  he 
passed  from  the  sick  bc/'s  room,  the  solemn 
ante-chamber  of  death,  into  the  world — the  hol- 
low, frivolous  world — of  Mr.  Pennythorne. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 


Many  waters  can  not  quench  love,  neither  can  the 
floods  drown  it 

For  love  is  strong  as  death :  jealousy  as  cruel  as  the 
grave.  SONO  OF  SOLOMON. 

LET  us  follow  Wychnor  where  his  presence 
was  so  energetically  demanded.  In  the  drawing- 
room  of  Blank  Square  no  one  could  be  more 
abundantly  welcomed  than  he.  Mr.  Pennythorne 
now  delighted  to  honor  his  "very  clever  young 
friend,"  and  had  told  some  scores  of  times  the 
story  of  Philip's  first  coming  to  London  with  the 
introduction  to  himself.  He  would  probably  re- 
peat the  same,  with  additions,  for  the  benefit  of 
every  young  man  whom  he  chose  to  patronize 
for  the  next  ten  years. 

"  Happy  to  see  you,  my  dear  Norwych — 
Wychnor,  I  mean,"  said  Mr.  Pennythorne,  cor- 
recting himself;  since  the  amusing  sobriquet 
which  he  had  conferred  on  the  poor  tutor  was 
hardly  respectful  enough  to  the  rising  author. 
"  Here  we  all  are  striving  to  get  through  the 
evening :  Fred  is  more  sleepy  than  ever,  and 
my  fair  daughter-in-law  evidently  thinking  she 
has  entered  into  the  dullest  family-party  of  the 
three  kingdoms." 

''Oh,  dear  no,  Mr.  Pennythorne,"  disclaimed 
Isabella,  who  got  on  extremely  well  with  her 
husband's  father.  She  was,  indeed,  treated  by 
him  with  great  consideration,  through  the  def- 
erential mockery  of  which  she  wras  nnt  acutr 
enough  to  penetrate.  She  really  liked  him  the 
best  of  the  family,  and  pronounced  him  to  be  "  a 
most  amusing  old  fellow."  "I  assure  you,  Mr. 
Wychnor,  we  have  been  laughing  amazingly. 
Mr,  Pennythorne  is  so  droll,"  said  she,  striving 
by  this  address  to  bring  the  young  man  in  closei 
approximation  to  her  chair. 

But  Philip  only  made  some  ordinary  reply 
and  sat  down  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  con 
sidering  what  excuse  he  could  frame  to  mak< 
his  stay  to-night  in  this  interesting  fami'y-circh 
as  brief  as  possible. 

Mr.  Pennythorne  led  the  conversation,  as  h< 
always  did — shooting  his  small  popguns  of  wk 
to  the  infinite  amusement  of  Mrs.  Frederick ; 
nevertheless  she  was  considerably  annoyed  tha< 
all  the  attentions  paid  her  came  from  her  elderly 
papa-in-law,  and  none  from  his  young  guest. 
Philip  sat  more  silent  and  quiet  than  usval,  until 
Mrs.  Pennythorne  came  in,  and  then  he  rose  up 
to  find  her  a  chair. 

"  He  never  did  that  for  me  in  his  life,  the 
bear!"  thought  Isabella.  It  was,  perhaps,  rather 
a  fault  in  Philip's  manners  that  his  courtesies 
and  his  feelings  always  went  together ;  he  could 
not  express  the  one  without  the  other. 

"How does  Leigh  seem  now?"  askel  he,  ad» 
dressing  the  mother,  who  was  so  accustomed  to 
the  young  man's  kindly  attentions,  that  she  took 
them  with  less  nervousness  and  shyness  from 
him  than  any  one  else,  and  requited  the  respect 
he  showed  her  (to  which,  poor  woman  !  she  was, 
little  used)  with  a  grateful  regard. 

"  Leigh  is  really  better  to-night ;  you  have 
quite  brightened  him  up,  Mr.  Wychnor,  for  he 
was  so  dull  all  day." 

"  Pray  choose  some  more  interesting  subject 
Cillie,  my  dear,"  sharply  interposed  Mr.  Penny 
thorne.  "  Leigh  thinks  far  too  much  of  himself 
already;  and  you  coax  him  into  imagiring  him- 
self ill,  because  it  looks  interesting.  That  is 


THE  OGILVIES. 


always  the  way  with  women  and  miners,  but 
it  will  not  do  in  ray  family.  Of  course,  nothing 
of  consequence  is  the  matter  with  Leigh."  The 
father  spoke  quickly,  almost  angrily ;  but  there 
was  an  uneasy  restlessness  in  his  manner,  which 
Philip  had  often  discerned  of  late  when  the  boy 
was  mentioned;  and  the  piteous  look  of  Mrs. 
Pennythorne  checked  the  answer  that  was  rising 
indignantly  to  the  young  man's  lips. 

There  was  a  constrained  silence.  Then  'Mrs. 
Frederick,  turning  from  her  husband,  who  was 
dropping  fast  to  sleep  again — his  usual  habit  of 
proving  that  Sunday  was  indeed  a  day  of  rest 
— made  another  effort  to  draw  Philip  into  con- 
versation. 

"  I  was  quite  anxious  to  meet  you  to-night, 
Mr.  Wychnor,  as  I  have  a  message  to  you  from 
a  friend  of  yours,  my  cousin — "  Philip  moved  a 
little — "my  cousin,  Hugh  Ogilvie." 

The  remark  only  brought  an  assenting  bow, 
and  a  hope,  laconically  expressed,  that  Mr. 
Ogilvie  was  quite  well. 

"  Certainly ;  how  could  he  be  otherwise  with 
a  young  bride  to  take  care  of  him '?"  tittered 
Isabella;  "and,  by-the-by,  the  message  comes 
conjointly  from  her,  which  must  be  very  natter- 
ing, as  all  the  men  think  my  cousin  Katharine 
the  most  betwiching  creature  in  the  world. 
But  perhaps  you  have  met  her?" 

"I  have,"  answered  Philip.  He  remem- 
bered but  too  well  how  and  where  was  that 
meeting. 

"  Oh  !  of  course  you  did — that  night,  at  Mrs. 
Lancaster's.  A  delightful  party,  was  it  not  ? — 
though  no  one  then  thought  how  soon  my  nice 
little  bridesmaid  would  become  a  bride.  Well, 
Mr.  Wychnor,  she  and  her  husband  were  inquir- 
ing after  you  the  other  day,  and  desired  me  to 
say  how  happy  they  will  be  to  see  you  at  the 
Regent's  Park.  They  have  the  sweetest  villa 
in  the  world,  and  ought  to  be  as  happy  as  two 
doves  in  a  cage,"  observed  Mrs.  Frederick,  in  a 
parenthesis. 

Philip  bowed  again,  and  muttered  some  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  "kind  invitation." 

"  There  never  was  such  a  stupid  young  man," 
thought  Isabella;  adding  aloud,  "Hugh  told  me 
also  to  say,  as  a  further  inducement,  that  shortly 
they  expected  a  visit  from  his  sister  and  your 
very  particular  friend,  Eleanor.  I  repeat  his 
words,  though  I  never  heard  before  of  this 
friendship." 

Another  silent  assent — but  no  deeper  pallor 
could  show  the  icy  coldness  that  crept  through 
every  fiber  of  Philip's  frame.  Sudden,  delicious 
tremblings,  quick  changes  of  color,  are  the  tokens 
of  love's  hopeful  dawn — love's  sorrowful  after- 
life knows  none  of  these.  Philip  sat  still — he 
would  have  "died  and  made  no  sign." 

"  The  fellow  is  positively  rude — he  might  be 
made  of  stone."  muttered  the  young,  wife,  as 
she  turned  indignantly  away,  and  relieved  her 
feelings  by  pulling  the  hair  of  her  sleeping  hus- 
band, with  a  pretty  gamesomeness  that  made 
her  father-in-law  laugh. 

''•Does  the  light  annoy  you,  Mr.  Wychnor? 
This  camnhme  is  always  too  dull  or  too  bright," 
quietly  said  Mrs.  Pennythorne.  «'  Shall  I  move 
the  lamp,  if  it  pains  your  eyes?" 

"Oh,  no,  not  at  all — that  is,  a  little,"  Philip 
answered,  hastily  removing  the  hand  with  which 
he  had  beon  shading  his  face.  "  My  eyes  are 


weak.  I  think  I  sit  up  too  late,  and  woik  too 
much." 

"  You  do  not  look  too  well,  indeed ;"  and  Mrs. 
Pennythorne  regarded  him  with  an  almost  moth- 
erly gaze.  "  You  should  go  to  bed  at  eleven, 
as  I  always  told  poor  Leigh."  Here  she  checked 
a  sigh,  and  glanced  fearfully  to  her  husband.  He 
was  performing  a  few  practical  jokes  on  his 
drowsy  eldest-born,  to  the  extreme  delight  of 
that  son's  wife,  who  treated  her  spouse  with 
about  as  much  respect,  and  not  half  as  much 
attention,  as  she  showed  to  her  pet  spaniel. 

"  I  will  come  and  see  Leigh  soon.  And  per- 
haps I  had  better  follow  your  kind  advice,  Mrs. 
Pennythorne,  for  I  am  really  very  tired;  so  J 
will  bid  you  good-night  at  once,"  said  Philip, 
rising. 

Here,  however,  Mr.  Pennythorne  put  in  his 
veto.  "  What !  running  away  so  soon  !  Non- 
sense, my  dear  young  friend.  Sit  down  again. 
Gillie,  ring  for  the  supper  at  once."  Certainly, 
wTith  all  his  short-comings,  Pierce  Pennythorne 
never  failed  in  hospitality. 

But  Philip  resisted  successfully,  and  made  his 
adieus.  He  had  gained  the  hall,  when  Mr.  Pen- 
nythorne summoned  him  back. 

"There  was  something  I  wanted  to  say  to 
you,  only  the  lively  and  amusing  conversation 
of  my  gifted  daughter-in-law,  here,  quite  put  it 
out  of  my  head.  Pray,  Mr.  Wychnor,  among 
the  numberless  invitations  which  must  throng 
upon  a  gentleman  of  your  standing,  are  you  dis- 
engaged on  Thursday?" 

Philip  said  he  was. 

"Then  will  you  dine  here?  In  fact,  1  want 
you  te  meet  a  particular  friend  of  mine,  a  very 
talented  young  man — immense  fortune — estates 
here,  there — "  and  Mr.  Pennythorne  nodded 
his  head  to  the  four  points  of  the  compass.  At 
which  Frederick  winked  slily — his  usual  custom 
to  signify  that  his  revered  parent  was  drawing 
the  longbow.  . 

"I  should  be  most  happy,  but — " 

"I  will  take  no  buts,  my  dear  Wychnor.  I 
want  you  particularly,  as  my  friend  is  thinking- 
of  entering  the  House,  and  wishes  to  stand  for 
a  borough  near  that  worthy  old  city  of  cats  and 

canons,  L .  You,  of  course,  having  lived 

there,  as  you  once  mentioned,  know  all  about 
the  place,  and  can  give  him  the  information  he 
requires.  Pray  do  us  the  favor." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  serve  any  friend  of  yours, 
Mr.  Pennythorne,"  said  Philip,  longing  to  es- 
cape. 

"  Then  we  may  expect  you.  Indeed,  you  will 
be  of  immense  service  to  this  embryo  statesman, 
if  you  can  tell  him  the  state  of  politics  and  par- 
ties in  shire.  He  wishes  to  settle  in  En- 
gland, but  he  knows  not  a  jot  about  English 
affairs,  and  is  only  just  come  to  town  from  a 
long  residence  on  the  Continent.  You'll  like 
him  very  much — there  is.  not  a  more  perfect 
gentleman  any  where  than  Mr.  Paul  Lynedon." 

"Paul  Lynedon!"  echoed  Philip. 

"  Yes ;  do  you  know  the  name  ?" 

"I  have  heard  it.  Bat  I  am  keeping  you 
standing  in  the  hall.  Good-evening,  Mr.  Pen- 
!  nythorne." 

"  Good-evening.  Remember — Thursday,  at 
i  six." 

The  young  man  muttered  some  answer  about 
being  "very  happy,"  that  white  lie  of  society! 


THE  OGILVIES. 


But  Philip  hardly  knew  what  he  said  or  did. 
When  he  had  fairly  quieted  the  house  and  its 
atmosphere  of  torture  for  the  cool  night  air, 
he  leaned  against  the  railings,  trembling  all 
over. 

Paul  Lynedon  in  London  !  Eleanor  coming 
shortly !  It  was  all  as  plain  as  light,  even  to 
this  entering  parliament.  Of  course,  the  intend- 
ed bridegroom  would  wish  to  be  of  importance 
in  the  county  whence  he  had  chosen  his  bride. 
They  would  settle  there,  too ;  and  she  could 
bear  to  live  in  the  dear  old  place,  within  sound 
of  the  cathedral  chimes  !  And  he  himself,  whom 
these  thoughts  caused  to  writhe  beneath  an  al-  ! 
most  insupportable  agony — an  agony  which  he 
had  dreamed  was  now  deadened  and  seared 
within  him — it  was  he  who  had  to  meet  these  j 
happy  ones,  face  to  face  !  It  was  he  who  seem- 
ed called  upon  to  serve  the  man  who  had  won 
his  heart's  treasure — the  love  of  Eleanor  Ogil- 
vie.  What  mattered  it  that  this  treasure  was 
perhaps  false — worthless  ?  It  had  not  been  so 
once ;  and,  whether  or  not,  he  had  carried  it  in 
his  bosom  as  a  jewel  beyond  price.  To  see  the 
gem  worn  flauntingly  by  another — it  would  be 
torture — death ! 

He  could  not  do  it !  He  would  leave  London 
— he  would  hide  himself  out  of  their  sight ;  and 
in  some  lonely  place  he  would  pray  Heaven  to 
comfort  him,  and  to  cast  out  from  his  riven 
heart  the  very  ashes  of  this  bitter  love.  He 
thought  he  had  trodden  it  down,  with  his  firm 
will,  his  noble  patience,  his  proud  sense  of  duty; 
and  yet  here  it  was,  bursting  up  afresh,  in  tor- 
turing and  burning  flames  !  He  wrestled  with 
it — he  sped  on  with  rapid  strides  through  the 
loneliest  streets — he  bared  his  head,  that  the 
fresh  May-breeze  might  pierce  with  loving  cool- 
ness into  his  brain — and  yet  he  was  half-mad- 
dened still ! 

It  is  a  fearful  thing — this  gathering  up  of  the 
love  of  boyhood,  youth,  and  manhood,  into  one 
absorbing  passion,  which  is  life  or  death.  Men, 
in  general,  rarely  know  it ;  the  sentiment  comes 
to  them  in  successive  and  various  forms — a 
dream  of  remance  and  poetry,  an  intoxication 
of  sense,  A  calm,  tender  esteem;  but  when  all 
these  feelings  are  merged  into  one — felt  through 
life  for  one  object  only — then,  what  woman's 
devotion,  faithful  and  tender  though  it  be,  is 
like  the  wild,  strong,  deep,  enduring  love  of 
man? 

Philip  reached  his  home,  utterly  exhausted  in 
body  and  mind.     His  brain  seemed  flooded  with 
a  dull,  heavy  pain,  and  yet  he  must  lie  down 
and  try  to  make  it  calm,  ready  for  a  long  day 
of  labor  on  the  morrow.     He  must  forget  the 
real  in  the  ideal — he  must  write  on !     No  mat- 
ter what  were  his  own  heart-tortures — he  must  I 
sit  down  and  calmly  analyze  the  throbbings  of  j 
the  wide  pulse  of  humanity,  as  displayed  in  the  ' 
world  of  imagination.     Perhaps  both  lives,  that ' 
of  brain  and  heart,  would  unconsciously  mingle  : 
into  one,  and  men  would  marvel  at  the  strange 
truth  to  nature — not  knowing  that  every  ideal  | 
line  had  been  written  with  real  throes  of  agony,  j 
and  that  each  word   had   gleamed   before  his 
eyes,  as  though  his  soul  had  inscribed  it  with  a 
lightning-pen. 

Poor  Philip !  Heaven  only  knows  through 
what  martyr-fires  souls  like  thine  ascend  to  im- 
mortal fame ! 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

Go  not  away !    Oh,  leave  rae  not  alone  ! 

I  yet  would  see  the  light  within  thine  eyes ; 
I  yet  would  hear  thy  voice's  heavenly  tone ; 

Oh,  leave  me  not,  whom  most  on  earth  I  prize ' 
Go  not  away !— yet,  ah  !  dark  shades  I  see 

Creep  o'er  thy  brow — thou  goest ;  but  give  thy  hand ! 
Must  it.  be  so  ?  Then  go !  I  follow  thee 

Unto  the  Silent  Land.  FREDRIKA  BREMER. 

So,  life  is  loss,  and  death  felicitie  ! 

SPENSER. 

IN  the  morning  Philip  Wyennor  was  laboring 
as  usual  at  his  daily  work ;  for  it  was  work — 
real  work — though  he  loved  it  well.  He  ap- 
plied himself  to  it,  day  after  day,  not  waiting 
for  inspiration,  as  few  writers  can  afford  to  do, 
but  sedulously  training  his  mind  to  its  duties^ 
until  he  roamed  among  the  beautiful  regions  of 
imagination,  like  a  man  who  wanders  in  his  own 
pleasant  garden,  having  first  taken  the  proper 
measure  of  walking  to  its  gate  and  bringing  the 
key. 

Philip  on  this  day  began  his  work  with  a  des- 
perate energy.  He  could  not  stay  musing,  he 
dared  not ;  he  fled  from  the  specter  that  memory 
conjured  up.  Thought  battled  against  thought. 
He  worked  his  brain  almost  to  suffering,  that  he 
might  deaden  the  pain  which  gnawed  at  his 
heart.  Nor  was  this  the  first  time  he  had  need 
to  be  thankful  for  that  blessed  dream-life,  that 
second  existence,  which  brings  oblivion  for  the 
sorrows  of  the  real  world.  A  space  since,  and 
we  pitied  the  poor  toiler  in  literature,  obliged  to 
rack  his  tortured  brain  in  despite  of  inward 
troubles.  We  look  at  him  now,  and  see  how  he 
grows  calm  and  brave-hearted,  as,  by  the  power 
of  a  strong  will,  he  passes  from  his  own  small 
world  of  personal  suffering  into  the  grand  world 
wherein  the  author  sits  godlike,  forming,  as  it 
were,  out  of  nothing,  new  heavens  and  a  new 
earth.  Shall  we  pity  this  true  man,  who  stands 
nearer  to  the  Heavenly  Maker  than  other  men, 
because  he  also  can  create  ?  Rather  let  us  behold 
him  with  reverence — almost  with  envy — for  he 
drinks  of  the  truest,  holiest  Lethe,  where  self  is 
swallowed  up  in  the  universal.  If  at  times  the 
shadow  of  his  own  bitter  thought  is  thrown 
across  the  wave,  it  appears  there  in  an  image 
so  spiritualized  that  he  can  look  on  it  without 
pain.  In  the  deep  calm  of  those  pure  waters, 
it  only  seems  like  a  light  cloud  between  him  and 
heaven.  * 

When  Philip  had  written  for  a  few  hours, 
there  came  a  message  from  the  Pennythornes — - 
or,  rather,  from  Mrs.  Pennythorne — saying  that 
Leigh  felt  so  much  better,  and  longed  for  a  drive 
with  his  dear  friend,  Mr.  Wychnor.  The  mother 
could  not  go  with  Leigh  herself,  and  could  trust 
him  to  no  one  but  Philip,  whom  she  entreated  to 
come  to  the  square  at  once.  This  was  repug- 
nant enough  to  the  young  man.  He  would  fain 
fly  from  every  place  where  he  might  hear  the 
sound  of  Paul  Lynedon's  name.  And  yet,  poor 
Leigh !  At  the  thought  of  him  all  these  earth- 
feelings  grew  dim  ;  they  melted  away  into  noth- 
ing before  the  awful  shadow  of  Death.  Philip 
laid  aside  his  work,  and  was  soon  by  the  side 
of  the  sick  boy. 

"  How  good  of  you  to  come !  But  you  are 
always  good,"  said  Leigh. 

"Indeed  he  is !  I  can  not  tell  what  we  should 
do  without  Mr.  Wychnor,"  thankfully  cried 
Mrs.  Pennythorne,  in  whose  long-subdued  nature 


THE  OG1LV1ES. 


/nany  a  new  chord  of  feeling  had  been  touched  ' 
of  late. 

Philip  pressed  the  hands  of  both,  but  did  not 
speak.  They  little  thought  what  deep  emotion 
struggled  in  "his  heart — that  poor,  torn  heart — 
which,  still  madly  loving,  found  itself  alone  and 
unloved.  Yet  their  few  words  fell  upon  it 
like  balm :  it  was  sweet  to  feel  that  even  now 
he  was  of  use.  and  precious  to  some  one  in  the 
wide,  desolate  world. 

•"  Leigh  may  take  a  little  longer  drive  to-day, 
for  Mrs.  Frederick  does  not  want  the  carriage. 
1  wish  I  were  going  with  you  both,"  sighed  the 
mother;  "but  Mr.  Pennythorne  does  not  like 
being  left  alone  when  he  is  writing." 

"Cillie!  Cillje!  are  you  going  to  stay  in  \ 
Leigh's  room  all  day?"  resounded  from  the  ; 
study  door.  Poor  Mrs.  Pennythorne  cast  a  ; 
hopeless  glance  at  Philip,  hastily  kissed  her  boy,  j 
and  disappeared  in  a  moment. 

Leigh  looked  after  her  wistfully.  "I  wish  | 
she  could  stay  with  me  a  little  more.  She  would 
like  it  now,  and — afterward!  But  she  is  a  good, 
dear  mother!  and  she  knows  I  think  so.  Be 
sure  you  tell  her  that  I  did,  Philip."  Wychnor 
pressed  the  boy's  hand :  it  was  a  strange  and 
touching  thing,  this  calm  mingling  of  death  with 
life  in  Leigh's  thoughts  and  words.  He  was  si- 
lent a  minute,  and  then  went  on  in  a  cheerful 
tone.  "  You  must  let  me  remain  out  a  good 
while  to-day,  L  feel  so  strong;  and  perhaps  I 
might  stay  a  little  later,  to  watch  the  sunset.  I 
never  can  see  it  from  my  room,  you  know; 
which  seems  rather  hard,  now  the  evenings  are 
90  beautiful  and  spring-like." 

Philip  soothed  him  as  an  elder  brother  might 
have  done,  and  promised  all,  provided  he  felt 
strong  enough.  Then  he  took  Leigh  in  his 
arms  like  a  child,  and  carried  him  down  stairs 
to  the  gay  carriage.  What  different  occupants 
were  the  fluttering,  fashionable  young  wife,  and 
the  poor  sick  boy,  who  lay  half-buried  in  cloaks 
and  cushions !  Yet  Leigh  lifted  up  his  head 
with  a  cheerful  look  when  Mrs.  Pennythorne 
appeared  at  a  window  to  give  her  parting  nod 
as  they  drove  away.  Philip  saw  the  bright, 
loving  smile  that  passed  between  mother  and 
son — he  thought  of  it  afterward  many  a  time. 

"Now,  where  shall  we  go,  Leigh?"  was  the 
first  question  proposed,  as  they  drove  along  the 
interminable  Kensington  High-street. 

Leigh  pleaded  for  some  quiet  road  : — he  want- 
ed to  go  far  out  in  the  country,  to  that  beautiful 
lane  which  runs  along  by  the  river-side  at  Chis- 
wick.  He  had  been  there  once  at  the  begin- 
ning of  his  illness,  and  had  often  talked  of  the 
place  since.  It  haunted  him,  he  said,  with  its 
overhanging  trees,  and  the  river-view  breaking 
in  between  them — its  tiny  wavelets  all  sparkling 
in  the  sun.  He  knew  it  would  look  just  the 
same  this  calm,  bright  May  afternoon. 

So,  accordingly,  they  went  thither.  It  was  one 
of  those  spring  days  when  the  earth  seems  to 
rest  from  her  joyful  labor  of  budding  and  blos- 
soming, and  to  be  dreaming  of  summer.  The 
birds  in  the  trees — the  swans  in  the  water — the 
white  clouds  in  the  sky — were  alike  still ;  and 
upon  all  things  had  fallen  the  spell  of  a  blessed 
silence — a  silence  full  of  happiness,  and  hope, 
and  love.  Happiness,  hope,  and  love — what 
words,  what  idle  words  they  would  sound,  unto 
the  two  who  were  passing  slowly  under  the 


shadow  of  the  trees!  Oh,  Earth,  beautiful, 
cruel  mother,  how  canst  thou  smile  with  a  face 
so  fair,  when  sorrow  or  death  is  on  thy  children ! 
But  the  earth  answers  softly,  ';I  smile  with  a 
calm  and  changeless  smile,  to  tell  my  frail  chil- 
dren that  if  in  me,  made  but  for  their  use,  is 
such  ever-renewed  life  and  joy,  shall  it  not  be 
so  with  them?  And  even  while  they  gaze  upon 
me,  I  pour  into  their  hearts  my  deep  peace  !" 

It  was  so  with  Philip  and  Leigh.  They  sat 
silent,  hand  in  hand,  and  looked  on  this  beautiful 
scene :  from  both,  the  bitterness  passed  away — 
the  bitterness  of  life,  and  that  of  death.  Which 
was  the  greater  ? 

On  the  bridge  at  Kew,  Leigh  spoke.  He 
begged  that  \he  carriage  might  rest  a  moment 
to  let  him  iook  at  the  sunset,  which  was  very 
lovely.  He  had  lifted  himself  up,  and  the  large, 
brown  eyes  seemed  drinking  in  all  the  beauty 
that  was  in  land,  river,  and  sky — they  re*i«d 
longest  there.  Then  they  turned  to  meet  Philip's : 
that  mute  gaze  between  the  two  was  full  of  sol- 
emn meaning. 

"  Are  you  content?"  whispered  Philip. 

."  Yes,  quite  :  now  let  us  go  home."  Leigh's 
eyes  closed,  and  his  voice  grew  faint. 

"You  seem  tired,"  said  the  other,  anxiously. 

"  Yes,  a  little.  Take  me  home  soon,  will  you, 
Philip  ?"  His  head  drooped  on  the  young  man's 
shoulder  heavily — so  heavily  that  Philip  signed 
to  the  coachman  to  drive  on  at  his  utmost  speed. 
Then  he  put  his  arm  round  the  boy,  who  lay 
with  closed  eyes,  his  white  cheek  looking  gray 
and  sunken  in  the  purple  evening  light.  Once 
Philip  spoke,  almost  trembling  lest  no  answer 
should  come. 

"Are  you  quite  easy,  dear  Leigh?" 

The  eyes  opened  and  the  lips  parted  with  a 
faint  smile.  "  Yes,  thank  you,  only  weary ;  I 
can  hardly  keep  awake,  but  I  must  till  I  have 
seen  my  mother." 

And  still  the  dying  head  sank  heavier  on 
Philip's  shoulder,  and  the  hands  which  he  drew 
in  his  to  warm  them  were  already  growing 
damp  and  rigid.  He  sat  with  this  solemn  bur- 
den in  his  arms,  and  the  carnage  drove  home- 
ward until  they  entered  the  square.  The  mother 
stood  at  the  door ! 

"  Take  her  away,  for  God's  sake — only  one 
minute,"  whispered  Philip  to  the  servant ;  but 
she  had  sprung  already  to  the  carriage. 

"  Leigh ! — how  is  my  darling  Leigh  ?"  Her 
voice  seemed  to  pierce  even  through  the  shadows 
of  another  world  and  reach  the  dying  boy :  he 
opened  his  eyes,  and  smiled  tenderly  upon  her- 

"Leigh  is  tired,  almost  asleep.  Take  the 
cushion,  Mrs.  Pennythorne,  and  I  will  carry 
him  in,"  said  Wychnor,  hastily.  She  obeyed 
withou  a  word,  but  her  face  grew  deadly  white 
and  her  hands  trembled.  When  the  boy  was 
placed,  as  he  seemed  to  wish,  in  his  mother's 
arm-chair,  she  came  and  knelt  before  him,  looking 
into  his  face.  There  was  a  shadow  there.  She 
saw  it  and  felt  that  the  time  was  come  when  not 
even  the  mother  could  stand  between  her  child 
and  Death. 

Philip  thought  she  would  have  shrieked,  or 
fainted,  but  she  did  neither.  She  only  jrazed 
into  the  dim  eyes  with  a  wild,  earnest,  almost 
beseeching  gaze. 

"Mother,  you  will  let  me  go?"  murmured 
Leigh. 


THE  OGILVIES. 


She  drew  a  long  sigh,  a*  if  repressing  an 
agony  so  terrible  that  the  struggle  was  like  that 
of  a  soul  parting ;  and  then  said,  "  Yes,  my 
darling !'" 

He  smiled — what  a  heaven  is  there  in  the 
happv  smile  of  the  dying  ! — and  suffered  her  fond, 
ministering  hands — unwilling  even  yet  to  give 
up  their  long  tendance — to  unfasten  the  cloak 
and  put  the  wine  to  his  lips.  Then  she  sat 
down  beside  him,  laid  his  head  on  her  bosom, 
and  awaited — oh  mighty  strength  of  a  mother's 
love ! — awaited,  tearless  and  calm,  the  passing 
away  of  the  life  which  she  had  given. 

"He  is  quite  content — quite  happy — he  told 
me  so,"  Philip  whispered  in  her  ear,  with  his 
soft,  comforting  voice. 

She  turned  round  one  moment,  with  a  startled 
air :  "  Yes,  yes,  I  know.     Hush !"  and  she  bent ! 
down   again  over  her  child,   whose  faint  lips 
seemed  trying  to  frame,  scarcely  louder  than  a 
sigh,  the  last  word,  "  Mother." 

Then  there  fell  over  the  twilight-shadowed 
room  a  solemn  silence,  long  and  deep — in  the 
midst  of  which  the  spirit  passed.  They  only 
knew  that  it  was  so,  when,  as  the  moon  rose, 
the  pale,  spiritual  light  fell  on  the  calm  face  of 
the  dead  boy,  still  pillowed  on  the  mother's 
breast.  She  turned  and  looked  upon  it  without 
a  cry  or  a  moan,  so  beautiful,  so  heavenly  was 
it !  At  that  moment,  had  they  put  to  her  the 
question  of  old,  "  Is  it  well  with  the  child  ?"  she 
would  have  answered  like  the  Shunammite,  "  It 
is  well !" 

"  God  help  her !"  murmured  Philip  Wychnor, 
as  she  at  last  suffered  him  to  take  the  beloved 
form  from  her  arms,  and  bear  k  to  "  Leigh's 
room" — they  call  it  so  even  now.  Ere  the 
young  man  left  the  chamber — once  the  scene 
of  suffering  and  pain,  now  of  holy  peace  and 
death-slumber — he  looked  long  and  earnestly  at 
the  white,  still  image  before  him.  Then  he 
turned  away ;  and  thought  no  more  of  the  dead 
likeness  of  what  poor  Leigh  had  been,  but  of  the 
now  free,  glorious,  rejoicing  soul. 

As  he  passed  down  stairs,  a  quick  loud  knock 
sounded  at  the  door — it  was  the  father's,  who 
knew  not  that  he  came  to  a  house  of  death. 

"  Cillie,  my  dear !  Eh,  what's  this  ?  Where's 
Mrs.  Pennythorne  ?"  he  said,  in  his  sharpest 
tones,  as  he  missed  the  customs  ly  meeting  at  the 
door.  Philip  advanced,  and  drew  the  old  man 
into  the  parlor. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Wychnor !  quite  a  surprise  to  see 
you,  but  delighted,"  he  began  in  his  usual  man- 
ner. "  Cillie  !  Where  can  she  be  ?  Cillie,  my 
dear !"  Then,  startled  by  Philip's  silence,  he 
stopped. 

"Mrs.  Pennythorne  is  up-stairs,"  the  young 
man  said,  in  a  low  and  hesitating  tone. 

"Eh  ?  oh,  of  course  she  is — with  Leigh." 

"No:  Leigh  does  not  need  her  now,"  an- 
swered Philip,  solemnly.  "Mr.  Pennythorne, 
your  son  is  dead  !"  But  the  next  moment  he 
repented  foi  thus  abruptly  communicating  the 
tidings. 

The  old  man  snatched  his  arm  with  an  incre- 
dulous gesture.  Then  he  groaned — "Oh  my 
God!" — we  ever  call  upon  that  nams  in  our 
agony  t — and  fell  into  a  chair,  almost  paralyzed. 

Philip  had  shrunk  with  disgust  from  the  stern, 
unloving  father  of  the  living,  who,  willfully  self- 
decoived,  hac'  led  his  own  son  to  the  sacrifice, 


and  looked  on  with  hard  and  cruel  eyes ;  bnt  no 
human  heart  could  have  turned  away  unpuying 
from  the  agonized,  remorse-stricken  father  of  the 
dead. 

For  many  minutes  did  the  old  man  sit  rtere 
speechless  and  immovable.  His  grief  w*s  so 
terrible,  in  its  pent-up,  stony  strength,  that 
Philip  dared  not  breathe  a  word  of  consolation. 
At  last  Mr.  Pennythorne  raised  his  head,  tl»ougb 
without  looking  up,  and  murmured  the  natne  of 
his  wife. 

"  Shall  I  call  her  ?" 

"Yes." 

She  came  in  that  instant.  She  had  be«n  for 
minutes  at  the  door,  not  daring  to  approach  him 
even  then.  But  now  she  drew  near  to  her  hus- 
band— woman-like,  wife-like.  She  laid  lib  head 
on  her  shoulder,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
he  clung  to  her  humbly,  meekly — feeling  that 
she,  in  all  her  weakness,  was  yet  stronger 
than  he. 

"  Come  with  me,  Pierce,"  she  whispered, 
and  led  him  away;  he  following  her  as  unre- 
sisting as  a  child. 

What  passed  between  the  desolate  parents, 
none  cf  the  household  knew.  They  remained 
shut  up  together  in  their  own  room  for  hours — 
nay,  for  days — all  the  time  that  the  dead  lay  in 
the  littJe  chamber  above.  They  saw  no  one — 
at  least  he  did  not — though  the  wife  passed  in 
and  out  now  and  then,  to  give  the  needful  orders. 
She  did  all  with  a  new-born  firmness  and  energy 
marvelous  to  witness.  Philip  Wychnor,  who 
once  or  twice  saw  her  for  a  few  moments  when 
she  descended  to  the  silent,  darkened  parlor,  be- 
low, unconsciously  spoke  to  her  with  a  strange 
reverence  and  tenderness,  as  to  one  of  those 
women  who  are  God's  angels  upon  earth. 

In  a  few  days  the  burial-train  passed  from  the 
door,  its  stately  array — vain  mockery  ! — moving, 
down  the  square  in  the  bright  sunshine;  ana 
the  house  of  the  Penny thornes  was  childless 
evermore. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

The  tongue  was  intended  for  a  divine  organ,  bat  the 
devil  often  plays  upon  it.  JKRKMY  TAYLOR. 

How  much  have  cost  us  the  evils  that  have  never  hap 
pened !  JEFFERSOK. 

Quiet  thyself  until  time  try  the  truth,  and  it  may 

be  thy  fear  will  prove  greater  than  thy  misfortune. 

SOUTHWELL. 

"  ARE  you  at  home  this  evening,  Wychnor?" 
said  a  friendly  voice,  when  Philip  sat  leaning  on 
his  desk,  in  a  thoughtful  mood.  He  looked  up, 
and  saw  at  the  door  the  face  of  old  David 
Drysdale. 

"  Certainly — to  you  always,  my  good  friend." 

"But  I  mean,  is  there  any  need  for  that 
amusing  fiction  at  which  society  smilingly  con- 
nives, though  I  know  you  do  not?  Is  your 
mind  really  at  'home,'  as  well  as  your  body? 
are  you  quite  disengaged?" 

"Yes,  I  have  done  my  work  for  to-day. 
Pray,  come  in,  Mr.  Drysdale,  and  be  very  wel 
come." 

"  Have  you  more  welcomes  than  one  to  give 
away?"  pursued  Drysdale,  still  holding  tb* 
door-handle;  "because  I  am  not  alone." 


94 


THE  OGILVIES, 


"  Any  friend  of  yours  I  shall  be  happy  to  I  tinued  Lynedon,  politely,  and  still  turning  tc 
see,"  beo-an  Philip,  in  the  usual  conventional!  his  silent  host.  '  But  in  numberless  ways,  too. 
form."  *  1 1  have  heard  so  much  of  you — from  Mr.  Penny- 

" Nonsense  !"  interrupted   the   old   man,   "I  i  tk.rne,  and  in  several  other  quarters." 
thought  I  had  cured  you  of  that  fashion  of  polite       Philip    changed   color.     He   need   not   have 
speaking.     Besides  friends  are  about  as  plenti-   done  so,  had  he  known  liow  often  truth  is  ex- 
ful  as  blackberries  in  London — I  may  say  that   tended  a  little  for  the  sake  of  compliment,  and 
with  great  truth,  you  know.     This  gentleman   was  so  especially  by  Paul  Lynedon.     Wychnor 
is  only  an  ar^uaintance.  of  mine,  who  wishes  to   began  to  talk  hastily  about  the  Penny thornes. 
become  one  of  yours."  "I  believe  I  was  invited  to  meet  you  there, 

"  And  a  Jit  tie  more  than  that,  I  hope,  in  time,"  '  Mr.  Lynedon,  only  for  the  trouble  that  inter- 
continued  a  voice  behind.  It  was  so  sweetly  j  vened. 

modulated — so  perfectly  the  tone  and  accent  of  j  "Ah  yes! — a  son  died,  or  daughter.  What 
that  rare  personage,  a  gentleman — that  Philip  a  melancholy  event !  Doubtless  the  family  were 
looked  eagerly  to  the  speaker,  who  added,  "  Shall  much  afflicted,'  said  Paul.  But  though  his  face 
I  introduce  myself,  Mr.  Wychnor,  as  my  friend  was  composed  to  a  decent  gravity,  the  tone  was 
here  seems  rather  to  disown  me?"  And  that  not  quite  sincere.  Philip  might  have  noticed  it, 
beautiful,  irresistible  smile  broke  over  his  face,  save  that  at  the  moment  his  thoughts  reverted 
making  one  forget  that  it  was  not  strictly  hand-  tenderly  to  Leigh. 

some.     My7 name  is  Lynedon — Paul  Lynedon."  j      "I  knew  they  would  kill  that  lad — the  young- 
Philip  had  guessed  it  before,  yet  he  could  not   est,  was  it  not  ?     Poor  fellow  !     I  dare  say  you 
suppress  a  start.     Once  again  there  came  that   miss  him,  Wychnor?"  observed  old  David, 
torturing  pain ;  the  blood  seemed  ice-bound  in  |      "  I  do  indeed.     He  was  a  dear  friend  to  me, 
his  heart,  and  then  flowed  back  again  in  fire. ;  though  he  was  quite  a  boy  !" 
He  must  be  calm ;  he  was  so.    The  next  moment !      "What  a  good-for-nothing  wretch  and  idiot 
he  forced  himself  to  utter  acknowledgment  and   the  father  has  been  !     I  wish  I  had  told  him  so," 
welcome  to  the  man  whom  Eleanor  loved.  j  cried  Drysdale,  indignantly. 

He  could  not  wonder  that  she  did  so,  now.  "  Hush  !  you  would  forgive  him  if  you  saw 
He  looked  on  the  finely-molded  form,  where,  to  him  now,"  Philip  gently  interposed ;  and  then 
natural  grace,  was  added  all  that  ease  of  move-  he  spoke  more  about  poor  Leigh,  to  which 
ment  and  courtly  elegance  which  polished  society  Drysdale  listened  compassionately,  while  Paul 
bestows ;  the  intellectual  head,  which  had,  be-  Lynedon  sat  twirling  his  cane,  trying  to  assume 
sides  character,  a  winning  sweetness,  given  by  the  same  interest.  He  did  not  do  it  so  well  as 
its  only  perfect  feature,  a  mouth  and  chin  most  usual,  though ;  for  Wychnor  detected  his  ab- 
exquisite  in  shape  and  expression.  And  then  straction,  and  apologized. 

the  voice,  that  index  of  the  heart,  how  musical  i  "  You  knew  nothing,  I  believe,  of  this  poor 
it  was !  Philip's  eye  and  ear  took  in  all  this ; '  lost  friend  of  mine  :  so  the  conversation  can  not 
and  even  while  a  sense  of  self-abasement  made  be  very  interesting'  to  you." 
his  heart  die  within,  he  felt  glad — thankful. ,  "  Except  so  far  as  all  humanity  is  interesting 
She  had  not  cast  away  her  love  upon  one  mean'  — and  where  will  you  find  a  subject  like  it?" 
and  unworthy ;  her  choice  was  not  such  as  to  answered  the  other.  Lynedon  would  not  have 


lower  her  in  his  eyes — he  could  bear  any  thing 
but  that ! 

"  I  have  been  wishing  for  this  pleasure  some 
time,  Mr.  Wychnor,"  said  Paul,  with  that  mixt- 
ure of  frankness  and  courtesy  which  formed  the 
great  charm  of  his  manner;  "you  seem  any 
thing  but  unknown  to  me— not  merely  from 
your  writings,  which  I  will  not  be  so  rude  as  to 
discourse  upon  here — " 

"Right,  Mr.  Lynedon,"  put  in  David  Drys- 
dale; "it  is  very  annoying,  when  a  stranger 
follows  up  his  introduction  by  taking  your  soul 
to  pieces  and  setting  it  up  before  your  eyes, 
until  in  most  instances  you  despise  it  yourself, 
'after  it  has  been  handled,  whether  lovingly  or 
not,  by  the  dirty  paws  of  a  fool.  Glad  to  see 
you  have  more  sense  and  tact  than  that,  Mr. 
Paul." 

"Thank  you!"  answered  Lynedon,  with  a 
pleasant  smile  and  bow,  as  he  turned  round 
again  to  Philip.  "  After,  this,  I  suppose  I  must 
say  no  more  about  the  knowledge  I  have  gained 
of  you  from  your  writings — which  is,  neverthe- 
less, the  true  way  of  becoming  acquainted  with 
o.  man.  In  the  world,  we  have  so  many  various 
outward  selves."  « 

"Humph!  we  oughtn't  to  have,  though!" 
muttered  Drysdale,  still  taking  the  answer  out 
of  Philip's  mouth.  He  did  not  know  how  thank- 
ful the  young  man  was  for  the  interposition. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,  Mr.  Drysdale,"  con- 


been  considered  unfeeling  on  any  account. 
Besides,  he  had  taken  much  pains  to  collect 
traditionary  evidence  concerning  the  character 
of  the  young  author,  who  was  likely  to  be  use- 
ful to  him ;  and  he  was  now  exerting  in  every 
way  his  own  favorite  talent  of  being  "  all  things 
to  all  men."  Paul  often  thought  this  was  the 
wisest  thing  his  saintly  namesake  ever  said,  and 
congratulated  himself  rather  irreverently  on  the 
presumed  resemblance  between  them. 

He  failed  here,  however ;  since  Wychnor  was 
not  inclined  for  a  discussion  on  moral  philosophy, 
but  came  to  the  point  in  his  own  candid  way, 
by  saying  at  once — 

"I  conclude  the  reason  assigned  by  Mr.  Pen- 
nythorne  for  our  meeting  at  his  house  will  fur- 
ther explain  this  obliging  visit  of  yours,  Mr. 
Lynedon ;  and  as  the  matter  is  no  secret,  I  be- 
lieve,  let 
would  have 

;  Aided  his  views !     So  you  had  some  views, 


me  tell  you   with  what  pleasure  I 
re  aided  your  views  had  I  been  able." 


Mr.  Paul? 
about  them 


Why,  you  never  told  me  any  thing 
!"  said  Drysdale,  with  a  degree  of 
simplicity  that  made  Lynedon  internally  wish 
him  at  that  "central  fire,"  which  formed  the 
old  philosopher's  present  hobby,  and  of  which 
he  was  perpetually  talking.  "I  thought  you 
came  here  only  to  see  the  young  author  of 
whom  you  said  you  had  heard  so  much?" 

"  Certainly,  that  was  my  chief  inducement. 
You  only  do  me  justice    my  worth>   friend." 


THE  OGILVIES. 


And  Paul  smiled — still  courteously  as  ever — 
on  old  David  ;  but  immediately  tried  to  free 
himself  from  a  rather  awkward  predicament  by 
turning  the  conversation  to  his  plans  with  regard 
to shire. 

"  You  resided  there,  I  believe  ?  A  delicious 
county  !  There  is  none  in  England  which  I 
like  so  much." 

Philip  bent  his  head,  and  his  fingers  played 
convulsively  with  the  papers  on  his  desk. 

"  So  you  are  really  going  to  join  that  excel- 
lent band  of  law-makers — that  Parliament-mir- 
ror which  is  supposed  to  reflect  the  soul  of  the 
nation.  Whether  it  does  so,  despite  its  cracks 
and  its  cobwebs,  must  remain  an  open  ques- 
tion," said  Drysdale,  trying  in  vain  to  get  an 
opportunity  for  one  of  his  lengthy  harangues. 
"And  you  mean  to  stand  for  that  little  town 
which  has  been  a  close  borough  these  two 

centuries  ?  I  know shire  pretty  well.  Of 

course  you  have  been  there  ?" 

"Once  or  so;  not  very  often."  And  Paul 
looked  rather  confused,  being  struck  with  the 
remembrance  of  his  former  mortifying  visit,  and 
earnestly  hoping  that  its  fair  object  had  never 
compromised  him  by  publishing  the  foolish  af- 
fair. The  very  idea  brought  a  dye  of  shame  to 
his  cheek.  Philip  saw  it ;  it  seemed  to  his  eyes 
the  consciousness  of  happy  love,  and  his  very 
soul  writhed  within  him. 

These  strangely  diverse  feelings  inclined  both 
the  young  men  to  the  same  course,  t  Each  in- 
stinctively glided  from  the  subject,  and  the  name 
of  L or  of  its  inhabitants  was  not  once  men- 
tioned by  either.  They  sought  refuge  in  safe 
generalities ;  and  the  conversation  became  of  a 
broken,  indifferent,  skirmishing  description,  nat- 
ural to  two  men,  each  of  whom  is  bent  upon 
concealing  his  own  thoughts  and  discovering 
those  of  his  companion.  In  this  Paul  Lynedon 
succeeded  best ;  he  was  a  far  greater  adept 
than  Philip  Wychnor.  He  talked  well — at  times 
brilliantly — but  still  even  to  the  most  earnest 
subjects  he, seemed  to  render  only  lip-service, 
and  always  appeared  to  consider  more  the  effect 
of  his  words  than  the  words  themselves.  He 
and  David  Drysdale  almost  engrossed  the  con- 
versation; but  once  or  twice,  in  some  of  his 
Snest  sentences,  Paul  stopped  unconsciously, 
and  wondered  why  the  eyes  of  Philip  Wychnor 
were  so  earnestly  fixed  upon  him.  He  did  not 
like  their  scrutiny. 

After  a  space,  Mr.  Lynedon,  growing  rather 
wearied,  remembered  that  all  this  while  his  cab 
was  waiting  in  the  street,  and  that  he  had  an 
engagement — at  the  Regent's  Park  ;  which  was 
the  first  place  he  happened  to  think  of.  As  the 
chance  word  passed  his  careless  lips,  those  of 
Philip  Wychnor  quivered  and  grew  pale  j  but 
they  uttered  the  parting  salutation  still. 

Paul  Lynedon's  adieu  was  full  of  the  most 
friendly  courtesy.  He  thanked  his  new  ac- 
quaintance warmly  for  all  his  kindness — "  the 
kindness  which  he  intended  to  show,"  as  Drys- 
dale commented  rather  pointedly — and  said, 
how  glad  and  proud  he  should  be  to  number 
among  his  friends  Mr.  Philip  Wychnor.  Per- 
haps he  felt  the  greater  part  of  what  he  express- 
ed ;  for  no  one  ever  looked  on  the  calm,  thought- 
ful face  of  the  young  author  without  a  feelling 
of  interest  and  regard. 

"  You  will  be  sure  to  come  and  see  me  soon, 


Mr.    Wychnor,''    said    Paul,    holding    out    hii 
hand. 

For  the  moment  Philip  drew  back  his  own ; 
but  the  act  was  unseen  in  the  half-darkened 
room.  With  a  violent  effort  he  .repressed  the 
shudder  that  came  over  him,  and  suffered,  rather 
than  returned,  the  grasp  of  Lynedon ;  but  it  was 
with  the  self-compulsion  of  the  martyr  who 
thrust  his  right  hand  into  the  flames.  When 
the  door  closed  on  his  visitor,  Philip  sighed  as 
though  a  mountain  had  been  lifted  from  his  breast. 

"  He  knows  nothing  of  the  past.  She  has  not 
told  him.  That  was  kind  of  her  at  le^st.  Thank 
Heaven !  he  does  not,  can  not,  know  what  we 
were  to  one  another !"  thought  Wychnor  to  him- 
self, almost  forgetting  the  presence  of  Drysdale, 
who  sat  in  the  shadow. 

At  length  the  latter  roused  himself  from  a 
brown  study  of  some  minutes'  duration  with — 

"  It's  of  no  use.  I  can't  make  out  that  young 
man  at  all.  Can  you?" 

"  I  ?  What  young  man  ?"  asked  Philip,  star- 
tled out  of  his  own  silent  thoughts. 

"  Paul  Lynedon,  of  course.  I  should  like  to 
anatomize  him — that  is,  his  soul.  What  a 
splendid  psychological  study  it  would  make  !" 

"Would  it?"  said  Philip,  absently. 

"Yes,  certainly!  I  have  been  trying  the 
experiment  myself  for  some  days.  Having 
nearly  come  to  the  end  of  the  abstract  sciences, 
I  intend  to  begin  the  grand  science  of  man,  and 
my  first  subject  shall  be  Paul  Lynedon.  What 
do  you  think  of  him?" 

Philip  conquered  a  rising  spasm,  and  said, 
firmly — 

"  He  seems  an  intellectual  man,  and  is  doubt- 
less as  noble-hearted  as  he  looks." 

"There's  the  thing!  As  he  looks — as  he 
seems !  I  have  never  yet  been  able  to  say  as 
he  is.  He  puzzles  me,  just  like  the  old  fable  of 
the  chameleon.  View  him  at  different  times,  and 
he  appears  of  different  colors ;  and  yet  you  can't 
say  he  changes  his  skin — 'tis  the  same  animal 
after  all.  The  change  is  but  the  effect  of  tlv 
lights  through  which  he  passes.  To-night  ht 
seemed  quite  different  from  the  individual  whora 
I  had  the  honor  of  meeting  yesterday  at  Mrs 
Lancaster's.  Yet  I  don't  believe  Paul  Lynedo?^ 
is  either  a  liar  or  a  hypocrite ;  it  could  not  be 
so,  with  his  head."  And  David,  who  was  a 
phrenologist  as  well  as  a  physiognomist,  in- 
dulged his  young  friend  with  a  loi<g  discourse, 
which  had  for  its  subject  the  skull  and  features 
of  Lynedon. 

"The  question  lies  here,"  continued  Drysdale, 
energetically,  "Is  he  a  true  man  or  is  he  not  ? 
I  can't  say  which,  at  p/e»eut ;  only  I  think  this, 
that  he  might  have  been  tnt*de  the  first.  Some 
people  go  swinging  unsteadily  through  life  with 
a  sort  of  penduh/m  character,  and  yet  they  are. 
composed  of  tolerably  sound  metal  after  all,  if 
you  can  but  gei  hold  of  them.  Nobody,  I  think, 
has  ever  taken  this  firm  grasp  of  Paul  Lynedon ; 
I  mean,  no  one  has  ever  had  influence  enough 
over  him  to  cause  him  to  be  what  he  now  only 
tries  to  seem,"  added  the  philosopher,  conde- 
scending to  lucid  explanation — a  rare  thing  with 
old  David. 

Philip  listened  with  an  eagerness  so  intense 
that  it  became  positive  suffering.  He  did  not 
believe  all  Drysdale  said — he  would  not  believe 
it.  The  Paul  Lvnedon  of  the  world  was  nothii.y 


THE  OGILVIES. 


to  him  the  Paul  Lynedon  whom  Eleanor  had 
chosen — whom  Eleanor  would  marry — he  com- 
pelled himself  to  think  these  very  words — was 
the  most  vital  interest  he  had  in  life.  To  doubt 
of  this  man's  worthiness  gave  him  an  acute 
pang.  He  would  satisfy  himself:  steeling  his 
heart  to  all  lower  feelings,  he  would  not  shrink 
from  Lynedon,  but  seek  to  know  him  thoroughly. 

"You  do  not  answer.  Do  you  agree  with 
me?"  asked  Drysdale,  when,  having  talked  him- 
self fairly  out  of  breath,  he  leaned  back,  intent- 
ly contemplating  the  quaint,  flickering  shadows 
which  the  street-lamp  produced  on  the  wall  of 
the  yet  unlighted  room. 

"  All  you  say  is  quite  true,  I  doubt  not,"  an- 
swered Philip ;  "  still  I  can  not  speak  positively 
upon  any  evidence  but  my  own  judgment  and 
knowledge  of  the  man." 

"  Bravo,  Wychnor !  Caution  very  large,  and 
conscientiousness  likewise.  I  always  said  so," 
cried  the  old  man,  gently  tapping  his  own  head 
with  his  forefinger  in  the  two  spots  indicated 
by  phrenologists  as  the  seats  of  those  qualities. 
"  ,But  the  evidence  you  allude  to  is  just  what  I 
want  you  to  get,  and  that — I  may  as  well  say 
so  at  once,  being  no  hand  at  hiding  any  thing — 
that  was  the  chief  reason  why  I  brought  Lyne- 
don to  you,  even  more  than  his  own  wish  of 
knowing  you.  Perhaps  you  might  do  him  some 
good  if  you  would." 

"  1  would,  indeed,  God  knows  !"  cried  Philip, 
earnestly,  so  earnestly,  that  Drysdale.  first  looked 
surprised,  and  then  rose  with  a  sudden  impulse 
to  pat  his  young  favorite's  shoulder,  in  a  manner 
expressive  of  the  most  genuine  approval,  saying, 
affectionately — 

"  Well,  I  knew  you  were  a  kind-hearted,  gen- 
erous fellow  as  ever  breathed.  I  never  should 
have  thought  it  worth  while  to  study  man  at  all 
if  you  had  not  attracted  me  to  the  science.  Now, 
about  Paul  Lynedon — are  you  listening  to  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  good  friend,  with  all  my  heart." 

"  Well,  do  you  see  that  lamp  shining  through 
your  muslin  curtain,  what  fantastic  shadows  it 
casts  ?  I  can  trace  a  different  shape  on  the  wall 
every  time  I  come  here.  But  if  there  were  no 
lamp,  mind,  there  wouldn't  be  any  shadow  at  all. 
NONY  the  lamp  may  stand  for  Paul  Lynedon's 
soul,  the  curtain,  always  assuming  different 
folds,  for  his  outward  character,  modified  by 
temperament,  circumstance,  or  education.  And 
what  1  want  you  to  do  is  just  this — " 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  he  gently  and 
slowly.  dr-w  the  curtain  aside,  and  the  broad,  full 
light  illu-nined  the  whole  wall. 

"  I  will  do  so,  with  heaven's  blessing  !"  cried 
Wychnor.  "  For  her  sake  !  for  her  sake  !"  he 
murmured  in  his  heart,  which  knew  not  how 
needless  was  the  vow. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

He  was  justly  accounted  a  skillful  poisoner  who  de- 
stroyed his  victims  by  bouquets  of  lovely  and  fragrant 
Bowers.  The  art  has  not  been  lost ;  nay,  it  is  practiced 
•very  day  by— the  world !  BISHOP  LATIMER. 

Take  heed— we  are  passionate !    Our  milk  of  love 

Doth  turn  to  wormwood,  and  that's  bitter  drinking ! 

If  that  ye  cast  us  to  the  winds— the  winds 

Will  give  us  their  unruly,  restless  nature ; 

We  whirl,  and  whirl,  and  where  we  settle,  Fazio, 

But  He  who  ruleth  the  mad  winds  can  know. 

MILMAN. 


IT  will  perhaps  tlirow  some  light  on  the  pecn* 
liarities  of  Lynedon's  character,  when  we  relate 
that  he  did  actually  drive  to  the  Regent's  Park 
to  fulfill  his  long-standing  and  important  en- 
gagement with — the  trees.  Whether  this  was 
done  as  a  conscience-salve,  or  as  a  safeguard 
against  any  chance  that  might  betray  to  Philip 
the  insincerity  of  his  excuse,  is  needless  to  ex- 
plain. Probably  the  act  was  compounded  of 
both  motives. 

He  was  not  quite  satisfied  with  his  visit. 
From  it  he  had  expected  much,  having  some 
time  previously  listened  with  too  credulous  ears 
to  Mr.  Pennythorne's  grandiloquent  description 
of  the  immense  connection  "his  excellent  friend 
Wychnor"  possessed  among  the  county  fami- 
lies in  shire.  Added  thereto,  Paul  had  a 

faint  recollection  of  seeing  the  name  Wychnor 
on  some  monument  or  other  during  his  walk 

through  L Cathedral  with  Eleanor  Ogilvie. 

Perhaps  he  would  not  have  observed  this,  but 
that  she  passed  it  over  undescribed.  He  won- 
dered, now,  whether  there  was  any  acquaint- 
ance between  the  Wychnors  and  the  Ogilvies; 
and  felt  vexed  that  his  own  foolish  sensitiveness 
about  that  ridiculous  flame  of  his  youth  should 
have  made  him  change  the  subject  without  try- 
ing to  discover  from  Philip  how  the  land  lay. 

Though  slightly  annoyed  at  this,  there  was 
something  in  the  young  man  that  he  liked ; 
something  which  touched  a  chord  in  his  better 
self.  Tliere  never  was  a  false  character  yet, 
I  that  did  not  feel  some  of  its  cumbrous  disguises 
!  drop  from  it  on  coming  into  contact  with  a  true 
|  one.  That  night  he  was  more  like  the  Paul 
j  Lynedon  of  Summerwood — the  Paul  Lynedon 
I  whom  Eleanor  liked,  whom  Katharine  so  madly 
!  worshiped — than  he  had  been  for  years. 

He  had  no  evening  engagement,  so  he  turned 
into  the  Opera.  Music  was  still  his  passion — 
still,  as  it  had  ever  been,  the  spell  which  un- 
locked all  his  purer  and  higher  feelings.  Per- 
haps this  was  the  reason  that,  in  his  present 
i  frame  of  mind,  he  felt  attracted  within  its  influ- 
ence, and  half-congratulated  himself  that,  being 
unlikely  to  meet  any  one  ho  knew,  he  could,  sit 
and  enjoy  "Anna  Bolena"  to  the  fullest  extent. 
It  was  rather  a  disagreeable  surprise  when,  as 
he  passed  the  entrance-hall,  he  heard  himself 
addressed  by  name.  Turning  round,  h/3  saw  a 
face  which,  although  it  had  altered  consider- 
ably from  the  fresh  charm  of  youth  to  the  coarse- 
ness of  mere  animal  beauty — he  recognized  at 
once  as  Hugh  Ogilvie's. 

"Quite  glad  to  shake  hands  with  you  once 
more,  Mr.  Lynedon,"  was  the  greeting  of  the 
latter. 

"The  pleasure  is  mutual,"  answered  Paul, 
cordially ;  "  but  really,  Mr.  Ogilvie,  how  well 
you  are  looking !  you  are  so  much  altered  that 
I  should  not  have  known  you." 

"  Nor  I  you.  if  it  had  not  been  for  Katharine 
here." 

"Miss  Ogilvie — Mrs.  Ogilvie,  I  mean,"  cried 
Lynedon,  recollecting  himself,  and  looking  rather 
awkward. 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha !  So  you  heard  of  our  marriage  ? 
Well,  let  me  introduce  you  over  again  to  my 
wife." 

Hugh  looked  toward  a  lady  who  was  behind,  \ 
leaning  on  the  arm,  not  of  her  husband,  but  of     ( 
I  some  other  gentleman.     "Mrs.  Ogilvie!''     At 


THE  OGILVIES. 


97 


tne  sound  of  her  name,  she  turned  slowly  ro-;nd, 
and  Paul  Lynedon  and  Katharine  stood  face  to 
face. 

He  was  startled — almost  confused — at  least 
as  much  so  as  was  possible  for  such  a  finished 
gentleman  to  be.  Could  that  magnificent  creat- 
ure really  be  the  little  Katharine  with  whom 
he  had  flirted,  years  ago?  "Good  heavens!" 
thought  he.  "how  beautiful  she  is!" 

Well  might  he  think  so,  even  though  the  feat- 
ares  were  white  and  still  as  marble,  and  the 
dark  eyes  seemed  cold,  proud,  passionless. 
Passionless! — as  if  such  orbs  could  ever  be 
thus,  except  in  seeming — as  if  such  lips,  whose 
rounded  curves  were  made  to  tremble  with 
every  breath  of  emotion,  could  be  thus  firmly 
compressed  into  apparent  calmness,  except  by 
the  strong  will  which  is  born  with  every  strong 
passion.  Katharine  was  beautiful,  dazzlingly 
beautiful ;  and  Lynedon  not  only  saw  it  with  his 
eyes  but  felt  it  in  his  heart.  He  looked  at  her 
as  he  had  never  yet  looked  at  any  woman — with 
a  sensation  less  of  admiration  than  of  worship. 
He  could  have  knelt  down  before  her,  as  in  his 
days  of  youthful  enthusiasm  before  some  pictured 
ideal  in  Greek  sculpture  or  Italian  art.  When 
she  gave  him  her  hand,  the  touch  of  the  un- 
gloved fingers  thrilled  him — perhaps  because 
they  were  cold  and  statue-like,  even  as  the 
face. 

He  quite  forgot  his  graceful  courtesies,  and 
bowed  without  a  single  compliment.  Only  he 
lifted  his  eyes  to  hers,  with  one  look — the  look 
of  old — and  she  saw  it.  Angel  of  mercy !  how 
much  a  woman  can  bear,  and  live  ! 

There  was  the  faintest  quivering  about  the 
mouth,  and  then  it  was  firmly  set,  and  the  proud 
head  was  lifted  higher,  haughtier  than  ever,  as 
Katharine  Ogilvie  said — 

"My  husband  and  I  have  much  pleasure  in 
this  unexpected  meeting,  Mr.  Lynedon." 

Her  husband/  Paul  had  quite  forgotten  that, 
and  the  word  stung  him.  That  glorious  woman 
the  wife  of  such  a  fellow  as  Hugh !  He  did  not 
like  to  think  of  it.  If  Katharine  meant  by  this 
distant,  proud  salutation  to  show  him  the  change 
that  had  come  between  them,  assuredly  she  had 
her  desire.  Lynedon  colored  slightly,  and  bit 
his  lips.  Already  the  foot  of  the  beautiful  tyrant 
was  approaching  him ;  soon  the  proud  man  would 
stoop  his  neck  beneath  it,  and  become  in  turn 
the  slave.  He  struggled  a  little,  though,  and 
said  in  his  old  manner — the  Sir  Charles  Grandi- 
sou  manner,  as  they  had  called  it  at  Summer- 
wood — 

"  Allow  me  to  congratulate  two  old  friends 
on  having  thus  added  to  their  own  happiness. 
That  such  is  the  case,  no  one  who  looks  at  them 
can  doubt." 

"  You  really  think  so  !  Well,  I  am  sure  we 
do  seem  very  happy  ;  don't  we,  Katharine? 
And  so  we  are,  though  it  is  long  past  the  honey- 
moon." And  Hugh,  with  an  air  half  shy,  half 
pleased,  edged  nearer  to  his  wife,  so  as  to  cast 
into  shadow  the  individual  who  formed  her  es- 
cort— a  mere  "  walking  gentleman,"  whom  it  is 
needless  to  describe,  except  by  mentioning  his 
name — Mr.  Whyte  Browne.  He  politely  fell 
back,  and  Katharine  took  her  husband's  offered 
arm.  But  she  leaned  on  it  with  an  air  of  indif- 
ference, just  as  she  would  have  done  on  a  chair, 
a  table,  or  any  other  article  of  furniture  belong- 
G 


ing  to  her.  Nevertheless  Hugh  looked  exceed- 
ingly gratified  and  proud. 

"  What  do  yoii  think  of  my  wife  ?  rather  alter, 
ed  from  the  little  girl  at  Summerwood,  eh  ?"  •  he 
said,  in  an  audible  pseudo-confidential  whisper 
to  Paul,  who  answered  aloud — 

"  Indeed,  pleasant  as  was  my  past  recollection 
of  Ka —  I  mean  of  Miss  Ogilvie — it  is  almost  ob- 
literated by  the  sight  of  Mrs.  Ogilvie.  I  should 
hardly  have  recognized  her." 

Katharine  bowed.  There  was  a  momentary 
curl  of  the  lip  and  contraction  of  the  brow,  and 
then  the  face  recovered  its  usual  expression. 
Hugh  patted  her  hand,  but  a  few  moments  after 
she  disengaged  it  on  some  trifling  excuse,  and 
stood  alone. 

Just  then  the  orchestra  within  began  the 
overture,  and  Hugh  made  a  restless  movement. 

"  We  shall  be  late,  and  you  know,  Katharine, 
you  always  scold  me  then — that  is  I  don't  mean 
scolding,  but  only  a  little  gentle  reproach,  which 
we  married  men  understand  well.  It's  rather 
nice  than  otherwise,  though,  Lynedon,"  said  he 
with  an  air  something  between  assumed  import- 
ance and  jocularity. 

Paul  crushed  his  heel  on  the  floor,  as  though 
he  had  a  desire  to  massacre  some  unfortunate 
fly  that  chanced  to  be  creeping  there. 

"We  will  pass  on,  Hugh,  if  you  wish."  was 
the  careless  answer  of  Mrs.  Ogilvie.  "Have 
you  a  stall,  Mr.  Lynedon  ?  Otherwise  we  shall 
be  happy  to  find  room  for  you  in  our  box,"  shfi 
continued;  giving  the  invitation  with  the  dig- 
nified indifference  of  one  who  was  accustomed 
to  take  upon  herself  that  duty,,  and  casting  a 
passing  glance  at  her  acquiescent  husband,  who 

"  Oh,  yes  !  we  shall  be  very  happy,  as  Katha- 
rine says.  Pray  come,  Lynedon." 

Lynedon  assented  with  a  look  of  evident  pleas- 
ure. Then  first,  over  the  proud,  impassive 
beauty  of  Mrs.  Ogilvie's  face,  there  came  a 
flashing  smile  that  kindled  it  up  like  a  lightning 
glare.  In  this  smile  were  triumph,  scorn,  and 
revenge,  with  a  delirious  joy  pervading  all.  It 
lasted  a  moment,  and  faded;  but  not  before 
Lynedon  had  seen  it,  and  had  felt  for  the  second 
time  that  strange  sensation  of  being  cowed  and 
humbled  before  the  very  feet  of  this  woman. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  take  Mrs.  Ogilvie,  while 
I  get  an  opera-book,"  said  the  husband;  and 
once  more  Paul  touched  the  hand  which  had 
before  sent  such  a  thrill  through  his  frame. 
Lying  on  his  arm,  it  looked  the  same  childish 
hand  which  he  had  many  a  time  toyed  with  and 
admired.  He  thought  of  this  now,  and  almost 
longed  to  do  the  same  again ;  but  on  it  sparkled 
the  warning;  symbol — the  wedding-ring.  It  was 
too  late ! 

Paul  Lynedon  was  a  man  of  quick  impulses. 
Of  his  numerous  small  affaires  de  cceur,  two- 
thirds  had  been  what  he  would  probably  have 
called  "love  at  first  sight," — as  if  such  passing 
enchainments  of  sense  or  fancy  were  not  dese- 
crations of  that  holy  word.  Had  he  seen  Mrs. 
Ogilvie  as  a  stranger  at  opera  or  ball,  he  would 
probably  have  conceived  for  her  this  idle  passion 
of  the  moment.  No  wonder,  then,  that  meeting 
her  now,  resplendent  as  she  was  in  all-subduing 
beauty  and  charm  of  manner,  and  remembering 
the  old  times  when  his  vanity  had  amused  itself 
with  her  girlish  admiration  of  him,  the  past  and 


98 


THE  OGILVIES. 


present  mingled  together  and  created  a  strange 
and  new  interest  in  Lynedon's  breast.  Before 
an  hour  had  passed,  during  which  he  sat  beside 
her  in  the  opera-box,  listening  with  her  to  the 
rich  music,  which  contributed  not  a  little  to  the 
bewildering  pleasure  of  the  moment,  Paul  began 
to  drink  in  her  every  look  and  tone,  and  feel  the 
deepest  chords  of  his  being  echo  to  the  fascina 
tions  of  Katharine  Ogilvie. 

For  she  was  fascinating — she  wished  to  be 
so !  In  a  short  space  the  frigid  dignity  of  her 
demeanor  melted  away,  and  she  became  the 
beautiful,  winning,  dazzling  creature  who  for 
some  months  had  been  the  very  cynosure  of  the 
circle  wherein  Mrs.  Lancaster  and  her  set  con- 
volved. She  talked,  now  with  the  brilliancy  of 
a  vivid  imagination,  now  with  the  deep  feeling 
of  an  impassioned  nature.  Of  all  her  conversa- 
tion Lynedon  had  the  complete  monopoly,  for 
Mr.  Whyte  Browne  had  mysteriously  vanished, 
and  Hugh  Ogilvie  was  always  half-asleep  be- 
tween the  acts  of  an  opera — he  said  the  noise 
and  light  made  him  so.  He  was  too  much 
accustomed  to  see  his  wife  receive  constant 
attentions  and  engross  all  qonversation,  to  mind 
it  in  the  least.  Besides,  poor  Hugh's  simple, 
unexacting,  contented  love  was  never  crossed 
by  the  shadow  of  jealousy.  He  composed  him- 
self to  sleep  in  the  corner,  with  an  apology 
about  the  long  ride  he  had  taken  that  morning, 
and  left  his  wife  and  Paul  to  amuse  each  other. 

There  is  no  spell  more  overwhelming,  than 
for  two  people  to  whom  music  is  a  feeling,  a 
passion,  to  sit  together  listening  as  with  one 
soul  to  the  same  delicious  strain  :  the  rapt  atten- 
tion— the  heart-thrilling  pause — and  then  the 
melting  silence  that  comes  afterward,  when 
eyes  meet  as  if  saying  mutely,  "  Thou  feelest — 
I  feel — therefore  we  are  one." 

This  strong  sympathy  existed  between  Katha- 
rine and  Paul.  When  the  act  closed,  he  turned 
to  her,  and  saw,  not  the  bewitching  creature  of 
fashion,  whose  very  art  and  coquetry  seemed 
charming,  but  the  deep-souled  woman,  in  whose 
heaving  bosom  and  tremulous  lip  a  world  of  pas- 
sionate feeling  was  revealed.  It  struck  the  one 
true  chord  in  Paul  Lynedon's  mercurial  nature, 
and  his  tone  changed  from  light  sparkling  wit 
and  fulsome  compliment  to  earnestness  and 
respect. 

"  You  love  music  as  much  as  ever,  I  see. 
You  have  not  changed  in  that,  though  in  every 
thing  else,  Mrs.  Ogilvie." 

"  Have  I  changed  ? — ah,  I  suppose  so — we 
all  do !"  said  Katharine ;  and  a  smile — first  of 
scorn,  then  of  well-assumed  sweetness — wreath- 
ed itself  round  her  mouth.  But  the  hand  which 
hung  unseen  among  the  folds  of  her  dress  was 
clenched  so  convulsively,  that  the  rose  it  held 
fell  crushed  to  pieces  on  the  floor. 

"  Even  so,"  pursued  Lynedon,  with  a  curious 

mixture  of  affectation  and  real  feeling;  "but 

allow  me   to  quote,  or  rather,  mis-quote,  the 

words  of  our  dear  old  Shakspeare,  and  say, 

'  Nothing  in  you  that  doth  fade 

But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 

Into  something  rich  and  strange.'  " 

Katharine  raised  her  graceful  head.  "You 
would  imply  the  need  there  was  for  a  change, 
and  you  are  right,  Mr.  Lynedon ;  no  one  can  be 
more  conscious  than  myself  of  the  deficiencies  of 
my  girlhood  "  There  was  a  bitterness  even  in 


the  half-jesting  speech ;  and  Paul  felt  the  edge 
of  his  elegant  compliment  blunted.  He  was  en- 
gaging in  an  attack  wherein  such  light  weapons 
would  not  do.  Slightly  confused,  he  quitted  the 
subject,  and  spoke  of  the  opera. 

"I  never  heard  Gnsi  sing  better  than  to- 
night. She  is  a  grand  creature,  but  still  she  is 
not  my  ideal  of  Anne  Boleyn.  She  makes  a 
stormy  tragedy-queen  of  the  meek,  broken- 
spirited  woman,  which  is  our  notion  of  Anne's 
character  as  gathered  from  history." 

"  History  is  a  trusty  chronicler  and  unfolder 
of  that  easy,  well-explained  subject — the  work- 
ings of  a  woman's  heart,"  answered  Katharine, 
with  an  irony  which  sat  on  her  so  gracefully  and 
delicately,  that  Paul  was  attracted  more  and 
more. 

"  Your  meaning  is  just,  Mrs.  Ogilvie.  Per- 
haps Grisi's  reading  is  the  true  one.  Still,  I 
wonder  how  far  we  may  unite  romance  with 
history,  especially  as  concerning  Percy — Anne's 
first  love  before  she  married"  Henry.  That  fact 
argues  against  the  poet's  creed  of  female  con- 
stancy, as  much  as  this  passionate  Semiramis- 
like  heroine  is  opposed  to  the  received  doctrine 
of  the  results  caused  by  a  broken  heart — meek 
patience  and  resignation  and  all  that." 

Paul's  mocking  speech  was  silenced  by  the 
flash  which  he  saw  gleam  in  Katharine's  eyes.  , 

"  That  is  the  way  you  men  speak  of  women  !" 
she  cried.  "  You  sting  them  into  misery — you 
goad  them  on  to  evil — and  then  you  retort  on 
them  with  a  jeer.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr. 
Lynedon,"  she  added,  with  a  sudden  alteration 
of  voice  and  countenance,  and  a  laugh  so  light 
and  musical  that  Paul  started  at  the  marvelous 
change.  "It  is  too  bad  of  me  to  amuse  you 
with  these  common-place  revilings  of  your  noble 
sex — a  subject  on  which,  pf  course,  no  fair  lady 
is  expected  to  speak  sincerely." 

Paul  acknowledged  the  implied  amende  with 
a  look  of  extreme  gratification.  "I  am  sure, 
judging  by  the  laws  of  attraction,  Mrs.  Ogilvie's, 
acquaintance  among  my  sex  can  only  comprise 
the  very  best  of  mankind." 

"  I  receive  the  compliment,  only  returning  you 
the  half  of  it,  which  seems  ingeniously  meant 
for  yourself,"  said  Katharine,  gayly.  "  And  you 
must  acknowledge  that  my  harangue  was  an 
excellent  imitation  off  the  stage  of  that  magnifi- 
cent Diva  who  is  now  entering  it.  So,  silence  !" 

She  laid  her  fair  jeweled  finger  on  her  mouth, 
round  which  the  most  dimpling  girlish  smiles  now 
danced.  Could  those  lips  be  the  same,  the  very 
same,  which  had  looked  so  white  and  gbastly  an 
hour  before  ? 

Hugh  roused  himself  at  the  sound  of  the  or- 
chestra:  and  came  forward  sleepily,  stretching 
his  long  limbs  and  somewhat  heavy  frame. 

"  Do  you  find  this  opera  amusing,  Katharine? 
because  I  can't  say  I  do,"  he  observed,  yawning. 

"Very  possibly  not,"  said  the  wife,  with  a 
glance  between  sarcasm  and  indifference.  But 
when  she  saw  Lynedon's  eyes  rest  contempts 
ously  on  Hugh,  and  then  on  herself  with  a  sort- 
of  insinuating  pity,  her  pride  rose.  "You  will 
acknowledge,  Mr.  Lynedon.  that  my  husband  is 
very  kind  in  accompanying — I  mean,  taking  me 
— to  the  opera  whenever  I  like ;  the  luore  so,  aa 
he  does  not  derive  from  it  the  same  pleasure  aa 
myself." 

"You're  a  good  girl,  Katharine,"  said 


THE  OGILVIES. 


99 


thankfully.  "  And  Mr.  Lynedon  won't  think  it 
rude,  my  going  to  sleep.  He  would  have  done 
the  same  if  he  had  ridden  to  Summerwood  and 
back,  on  that  hard-mouthed  brute,  Brown  Bess." 

Paul's  satirical  smile  became  one  of  polite  at- 
tention under  the  gleam  of  Mrs.  Ogilvie's  eyes. 

"  Still  fond  of  horses  and  hunting,  Mr.  Ogil- 

Vlft?" 

Hugh  gave  expressiou  to  a  melancholy  grim- 
ace. "  I  can't  hunt  now  we  live  in  town — and 
Katharine  does  not  like  it.  I  suppose  she's  right 
— she  always  is.  Hunting  is  dangerous,  and 
a  married  man  ought  to  take  care  of  himself, 
you  know.  It's  all  her  love  for  me." 

"  Come,  you  gentlemen  can  talk  presently. 
At  all  events,  Hugh,  pray  be  silent  while  Mario 
sings  Vlvi  fw,"  said  Katharine,  restlessly. 

"Thanks  for  the  reproof,  Mrs.  Ogilvie." 
And  Lynedon  bent  forward  attent.  Through- 
out the  song  he  stood  leaning  against  the  side 
of  the  box  in  his  old  attitude,  with  folded  arms, 
and  fixed,  earnest  eyes.  Behind  him,  Hugh 
lounged  on  a  chair  in  a  rather  awkward  fashion 
— his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  chin  on  his  two 
hands,  with  shut  eyes  and  half-open  mouth. 
The  two — both  what  the  world  would  consider 
fine-looking  men — were  types  of  distinct  kinds  of 
beauty  :  the  intellectual  and  the  animal.  Kath- 
arine looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and  shud- 
dered. Heaven  forgive  the  wife  for  that  fearful 
thrill  of  mingled  love  and  hatred  which  came 
over  her !  She  could  have  shrieked  aloud  with 
despair — almost  with  terror — for  she  felt  the 
demon  entering  her  soul ! 

Yet  when  the  opera  ended,  and  Paul,  on  bid- 
ding adieu,  acquiesced  eagerly  in  Hugh's  invita- 
tion to  dine  with  them  the  next  week,  Katharine 
felt  a  glow  of  fearful  happiness.  Had  a  river 
of  fire  rolled  between  her  and  Paul  Lynedon, 
she  would  Have  plunged  into  it — to  gain  once 
more  the  sij,  .t  of  his  face — the  sound  of  his 
voice  I 


CHAPTER  XL. 

i  ue  affections),  "Jke  the  console::?*,  aio  rather  to  be  led 
than  drawn;  and 'tis  to  be  feared  u  »t  th.*y  -who  marry 
where  they  do  not  love,  WiU  love  where  Jhey  do  not 
marry.  ^CL^KR. 

MR.  AND  MRS.  HUGH  OGILVIE,  of  "West->ank 
Villa,  Regent's  Park,  were  very  different  from 
the  blithe  Katharine  and  cousin  Hugh  of  Sum 
merwood.  The  latter,  deprived  of  that  physi^a.' 
out-of-door  life  which  comprised  his  whole  exist- 
ence, was  growing  dull,  stout,  lazy.  The  heavy- 
looking  man  who  lounged  wearily  over  his  late 
Dreakfast,  the  greater  part  of  which  became  the 
perquisite  of  his  sole  companions  in  the  meal, 
two  pet  dogs — was  a  melancholy  contrast  to 
the  lithe,  active  youth  who  used  to  come  bound- 
ing in  from  his  morning  ride  or  walk  to  the 
breakfast-table  at  Summerwood. 

"  Down,  Tiger,  down  !  You  must  creep  out 
of  the  way  when  your  mistress  comes ;  she  don't 
like  you  as  she  used  to  do.  Heigho,  twelve 
i>' clock  !  Katharine  gets  later  than  ever.  Sho 
always  was  down  by  elevsn  at  least,"  sighed 
Hugh  to  himself.  "  This  comes  of  living  in 
town.  Things  were  not  thus  at  SuirunerworxL" 

He  rang  for  his  wife's  maid,  ai:d  ?ent  up  a 
deprecating  message,  that  if  Mrs.  Ogihiecou'd 


manage  it,  without  hurrying  he, -self,  he  wi/old 
very  much  like  to  see  her  before  he  took  his 
morning  ride.  And  then  in  despair  he  patted 
his  dogs  again,  thinking  with  doleful  regret  of 
"  the  life  that  late  he  led." 

Katharine  heard  the  humble  request  with  an 
impatient  gesture,  and  turned  her  levered  cheek 
again  on  the  pillow.  It  was  indeed  a  long,  long 
time  since  Hugh  had  been  blest  with  that  bright- 
est  morning  sunshine  for  a  young  husband— -his 
wife's  cheerful  smile  at  his  breakfast-board. 
Katharine,  who  once  used  to  rise  with  the  lark, 
now  indulged  perpetually  in  that  dreamy  stupor, 
half  sleeping,  half  waking,  by  which,  in  our 
troubled  and  restless  moods,  we  seek  to  shorten 
the  day  and  deaden  the  consciousness  of  our 
real  life.  It  is  only  when  we  are  happy  and 
light-hearted  that  we  care  to  face  the  morning 
hours.  Katharine  Ogilvie  shrank  from  them 
with  a  vague  fear,  and  never  rose  until  near 
mid-day. 

Hugh  had  mounted  Brown  Bess  in  despair, 
and  cantered  her  thrice  round  the  Park  before 
his  wife  appeared.  On  his  return  he  found 
Katharine  still  in  the  breakfast-room.  Though 
during  the  ride  he  had  in  his  vexation  resolved 
to  give  her  a  right  due  conjugal  lecture,  she 
looked  so  beautiful  in  her  white  morning  dress, 
that  he  quite  forgot  it,  and  kissed  her  heartily 
instead. 

She  received  his  welcome  coldly  enough. 

"  There,  that  will  do.  Why  will  you  bring 
those  two  horrid  dogs,  Hugh  ?  You  know  they 
annoy  me.  Take  them  away." 

"That  I  will.  Here,  Tiger!  Leo!"  He 
turned  them  out,  and  shut  the  door.  "  I  never 
let  them  in  here  except  when  you  are  not  down 
to  breakfast,  Katharine.  But  that  is  often 
enough,"  he  added,  disconsolately. 

"  I  can  not  help  it,  with  our  late  hours  and 
visiting." 

"  Why  should  we  visit  so  much,  then  ?  I'm 
sure  I  don't  want  it.  Suppose  we  were  to  turn 
over  a  new  leaf,  dear  Katharine,"  was  the  hum- 
ble proposition  of  the  husband;  but  it  met  no 
consenting  response  from  the  wife. 

"  Do  not  trouble  me,  Hugh  ;  I  told  you  when 
I  married  that  I  must  see  a  little  of  the  world. 
You  want  nothing  but  dogs  and  horses  ;  I  want 
many  other  things — books,  amusements,  society 
— and  I  can  not  be  happy  without  them.  Don't 
judge  me  by  yourself,  because  my  pleasures  are 
very  different  from  yours." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  know  they  are,"  answered  Hugh, 
with  a  sigh.  "  Well,  Katharine,  you  were  al- 
ways cleverer  than  I ;  it  shall  be  as  you  like ; 
only  if  you  would  let  me  see  a  little  more  of  you 
in  the  morning " 

"  Yes,  yes,  if  you  will  not  interrupt  me  now 
that  I  have  this  new  book  to  read ;  and  you  may 
sit  down  and  look  at  the  second  volume  :  not 
that  it  would  interest  you,  except  that  the  author 
is  your  old  acquaintance,  Mr.  Wychnor." 

Hugh  seated  himself  in  obedient  silence,  and 
turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  book.  His  gentle 
forbearance  made  no  impression  on  his  wile.  A 
woman — especially  one  like  Katharine — had  ten 
times  rather  be  trodden  under  foot  by  a  man 
who  is  her  superior,  than  worshiped  as  an  idol 
by  one  beneath  herself.  How  fearful  is  the  dan- 
ger into  which  such  a  woman  plunges,  when 
siie  takes  for  the  guide  of  her  f>**tjc.<^«<?fee  hus- 


100 


THE  OGILVIES. 


band  who  ought  to  be  reverenced  next  to  Heaven 
—one  who  must  perforce  be  to  her  not  a  ruler 
but  a  slave ! 

In  the  desperation  which  prompted  her  sud- 
den marriage,  Katharine  had  never  thought  of 
this.  She  considered  not  the  daily  burden  of  a 
loveless,  unequal  yoke — the  petty  jars — the  con- 
tinual dragging  down  a  strong  mind  to  the  weary 
level  of  an  inferior  one.  Heaven  made  woman 
from  man,  not  man  from  woman.  A  great- 
hearted and  good  man  can  lift  his  wife  nearer 
to  his  own  standard ;  but  by  no  power  on  earth 
can  a  superior  woman  elevate  her  husband's 
weaker  mind.  She  must  sink  down  to  him ;  all 
the  love  in  the  world  will  not  make  him  her 
equal.  And  if  love  be  not  there,  woe,  woe  unto 
her,  for  it  is  a  fearful  precipice  on  which  she 
stands  ! 

Mrs.  Ogilvie's  pride  had  carried  her  success- 
fully through  the  first  months  of  her  married  life. 
Young,  beautiful,  and  universally  admired  as  she 
was,  no  one  had  cast  upon  her  the  shadow  of 
blame.  Her  self-respect,  if  not  her  love,  had 
covered  Hugh's  inferiority  as  with  a  shield, 
which  made  others  show  him  the  deference  that 
the  wife  felt  not,  but  had  the  grace  to  simulate. 
For  herself  she  received  the  incense  of  admira- 
tion which  universally  greeted  her  with  such 
proud  indifference,  that  many  men,  whom  one 
smile  would  have  brought  unworthily  to  her  feet 
were  content  to  be  driven  in  chains,  like  wild 
tigers  harnessed  to  the  car  of  some  Amazonian 
queen.  She  let  them  see — ay,  and  the  world 
see  too— that  she  would  not  step  from  her  height 
for  one  moment,  so  as  to  become  their  prey. 

Thus  it  was  with  the  young  wife,  until  her 
path  was  again  crossed  by  the  shadow  of  that 
terrible  love  which  had  made  her  life's  destiny — 
until  she  was  once  more  brought  within  the 
influence  of  Paul  Lynedon. 

Against  this  influence  her  spirit  now  strug- 
gled. She  felt  that  already  a  change  had  come 
over  her,  breaking  the  dull  round  of  her  aimless 
existence,  to  escape  the  inanity  of  which  she  had 
plunged  into  the  excitement  of  perpetual  dissi- 
pation. It  was  as  if  a  gleam  of  lurid  brightness 
had  darted  across  her  sky :  the  world  itself  did 
not  look  as  it  had  done  one  little  day  before. 
She  sought  not  to  analyze  her  own  sensations  : 
she  only  knew  that  where  there  had  been  dark- 
ness there  now  was  light ;  and  if  the  flash  were 
a  blinding  flame,  she  would  have  lifted  her  long 
ing  eyes  to  it  just  the  same.  Her  heart  was  yet 
pure  enough  to  be  fearless ;  her  sense  of  a^  wife's 
duty  was  sufficiently  strong,  she  deemed,  to 
stand  in  the  place  of  a  wife's  love.  And  even 
with  regard  to  Paul  Lynedon  there  had  come  a 
change.  She  woi'shiped  no  longer  with  blind 
adoration  the-all-perfect  ideal  of  her  girlhood, 
but  with  her  love's  reviving  fires  mingled  a 
darkening  cloud  of  vengeance.  She  desired  to 
make  him  feel  what  she  had  herself  felt— to 
drive  him  mad  for  her  sake,  and  then  fling  back 
upon  him  the  dread  "  too  late/' 

While,  with  the  book  before  her  eyes,  she 
leaned  in  her  cushioned  chair — reading,  not 
the  beautiful  outpourings  of  Philip  Wychnor's 
genius,  but  the  fearful  writing  on  her  own  heart 
— Katharine  heard  the  name  which  had  once 
been  to  her  a  glad,  all-pervading  music.  The 
silent  tete-a-tete  of  the  husband  and  wife  was 
broken  by  Paul  Lynedon. 


He  had  that  morning  been  much  gratified  at 
the  discovery  of  Mrs.  Ogilvie's  opera  glass  in 
his  own  pocket,  and  now  came  to  express,  \vith 
his  usual  indifference  to  truth,  the  extreme  re- 
gret which  this  fact  would  *have  caused  him, 
except,  indeed,  for  the  pleasure  of  returning  the 
fair  owner  her  property. 

Lynedon  would    have   received   a  welcome, 

though  without  this  excuse.     Hugh  was  always 

lad  to  see  any  stray  visitor  who  brightened  up 

his   wife's  gloomy  brow.      It  is  only  a  happy 

home  that  needs  no  guests  within  its  walls. 

Paul  found  Mrs.  Ovilvie  as  beautiful  by  day- 
light as  under  the  glare  of  opera  radiance.  He 
had  never  seen  any  one  who  came  so  near  his 
ideal  of  womanhood.  He  admired,  too,  the  very  - 
atmosphere  in  which  she  moved,  her  house  being 
filled  with  indications  of  its  mistress's  taste  in 
music,  art,  and  literature.  His  refined  percep- 
tion at  once  detected  these  mute  revealings  of  a 
woman's  mind  and  character.  Struck  more  and 
more,  he  exerted  his  whole  powers  of  pleasing, 
and  the  unfailing  charm  extended  even  to  Hugh. 
The  trio  talked  pleasantly  for  some  time  on 
general  and  individual  subjects,  and  Lynedon 
heard  how  Sir  Robert  and  Lady  Ogilvie  still 
resided  at  Summerwood,  though  the  latter,  was 
in  rather  infirm  health. 

"  I  can  not  be  much  with  mamma  now — it  is 
impossible,"  observed  Katharine  ;  4t'but  I  have 
petitioned  my  sister-in-law  to  visit  her.  Kou 
remember  Eleanor?" 

"  Of  course  he  does.  Why,  Lynedon,  I  used 
to  think  you  were  smitten  there,"  cried  Hugh, 
adding  to  the  coarse  expression  a  coarser  laugh. 
Paul  replied,  with  an  air  of  perfect  self-posses- 
sion and  indifference,  "I  feel  for  Miss  Eleanor 
Ogilvie  the  same  respect  which  I  have  for  any 
lady  who  honors  me  with  her  acquaintance." 

As  he  spoke  he  caught  the  searching  glance 
of  Katharine,  but  it  glided  from  his  face  in  a 
moment.  Hugh  persisted  in  his  idle  jest. 
"  Well,  well,  I  suppose  I  was  mistaken.  And 
so  you  have  got  no  farther  than  acquaintance 
with  any  of  the  pretty  girls  you  have  met? 
Never  expect  me  to  take  in  that  Lynedon ! 
Why,  we  heard  you  were  going  to  be  married 
to  a  lady  abroad.  Who  said  so  ? — Mrs.  Lancas- 
ter, was  it  not,  Katharine  ?" 

"  I  am  sorry  Mrs.  Lancaster  should  have 
ascribed  to  me  more  happine'ss  than  I  am  likely 
to  attain,"  said  Paul,  with  quiet  dignity.  "I 
have  never  yet  seen  the  woman  whom  I  could 
marry."  It  was  a  saving  "  could" — he  laid  it  to 
his  conscience  as  an  atonement  for  the  falsehood. 
"  Mrs.  Ogilvie,  allow  me  !"  he  added,  stooping 
for  a  book  which,  in  hastily  reaching  it,  she  had 
let  fall.  He  staid  to  gather  up  some  dried 
flowers  which  were  scattered  from  the  open 
leaves,  and  so  did  not  see  Katharine's  face. 
When  he  presented  the  book,  she  took  it  with  a 
steady  hand  and  a  graceful,  smiling  acknowledg- 
ment. 

"It  is  a  favorite  volume  of  mine,  though  I 
have  only  lately  placed  it  among  the  list  of  the 
books  I  love,  she  said.  "The  author  is  an 
acquaintance  of  ours,  named  Wychnor." 

"  Philip   Wychnor — an   excellent   fellow  !     I 
know  him,  and  like  him  much.     How  glad  I    \ 
am  to  call  a  friend  of  yours  mine  also  !"  cried 
Paul 

"Indeed  we  can't  exactly  call  him  a  friend 


THE  OGILVIES. 


tti 


We  never  can  get  him  out  here,"  said  Hugh. 
"  Katharine,  let  us  try  him  once  more,  and  invite, 
him  for  Thursday.  Perhaps  Mr.  Lynedon  might 
persuade  him.  I  wish  Eleanor  were  here — she 
would  !  They  two  always  got  on  together  ex- 
cellently." 

This  remark  was  lost  on  Paul,  who  had  long 
ceased  to  attach  any  interest  to  Eleanor's  name; 
but  it  struck  Katharine's  womanly  ear. 

"  Tell  Mr.  Wychnor,"  said  she,  "  that  though 
it  is  impossible  for  my  sister  to  be  with  us  on 
Thursday,  I  hope  he  will  still  come.  He  must 
meet  her  here  some  day  the  following  week : 
Eleanor  is  always  glad  to  see  an  old  friend. 
But  stay  :  I  will  not  trouble  you  with  so  long  a 
message.  I  will  write,  and  make  you  my  Mer- 
cury," she  added,  gayly. 

"  To  be  of  use  to  Mrs.  Ogilvie  in  any  thing 
would  give  me  only  too  much  happiness,"  was 
his  reply,  spoken  for  once  with  entire,  undis- 
guised truth.  When,  a  few  minutes  after, 
Lynedon  passed  out  of  the  house,  he  drew  the 
delicate  missive  from  his  pocket  and  looked  on 
the  handwriting  and  seal  with  a  lingering,  loving 
gaze.  He  felt  that  he  could  have  traversed  all 
London  to  fulfill  the  slightest  wish  of  Katharine 
Ogilvie. 

The  whole  way  to  Philip  Wychnor's  abode, 
her  voice  rang  in  his  car — her  face  flitted  bsfore 
him.  He  contrived,  however,  to  banish  the 
haunting  vision  a  little ;  so  as  to  enter  into  con- 
versation with  the  young  author,  and  efface  the 
evident  confusion  which  his  unexpected  entrance 
caused.  Paul  attributed  this  to  the  sudden  dis- 
turbance he  had  occasioned  in  Wychnor's  lit- 
erary pursuits,  and  thanked  his  stars  that  he 
was  not  an  author.  To  shorten  his  visit,  he 
quickly  delivered  the  letter.  But  he  never 
noticed  how  Philip's  hands  trembled  over  it,  for 
Lynedon  had  taken  advantage  of  the  silence  to 
ponder  once  more  on  the  exquisite  beauty  of 
Mrs.  Ogilvie. 

"You  will  go,  of  course?  They  are  a 
charming  family — the  Ogilvies.  I  feel  quite 
proud  to  call  them  old  friends,  as  I  am  sure  you 
must,  since  you,  I  believe,  share  the  same  priv- 
ilege?" 

After  this  remark,  Paul  looked  up  for  an 
answer,  and  received  Philip's  half-suppressed 
"Yes!" 

"  Mrs.  Ogilvie  is  so  anxious  to  know  more  of 
you,  and  you  can  not  refuse  her.  Indeed,  Mr. 
Wychnor,  you  see  how  desirous  we  all  are  for 
your  friendship." 

"  We  all  are  !"  Philip  shrank  visibly— the 
careless  word  seemed  to  him  to  imply  so  much. 
But  there  was  a  cordial  frankness  in  Lynedon's 
manner  that  he  could  not  resist.  He  remembered, 
too,  the  conversation  with  David  Drysdale,  and 
his  own  promise  concerning  Paul. 

"I  shall  not  see  her,"  he  reasoned  within 
himself;  "no,  I  could  not  bear  that.  But  I 
will  not  draw  back  from  this  man  :  I  will  prove 
him  — I  will  read  his  heart,  and  be  satisfied 
whether  he  is  worthy  of  her  or  not.  Mr.  Lyne- 
don," he  said  aloud,  "  it  has  of  late  been  rarely 
my  custom  to  visit — I  have  neither  time  nor 
inclination;  but  since  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ogilvie 
desire  it,  I  will  come  on  Thursday." 

"  That  is  right !  it  will  give  her  so  much 
pleasure !"  and  again  Philip's  shrinking  fingers 
were  compressed  in  the  warm  grasp  of  his 


supposed  rival.  They  talked  for  a  few  minutes 
longer  on  other  subjects,  and  then  Paul  quitted 
him. 

Philip  Wychnor  sank  back  on  his  chair  with 
a  heavy  sigh.  "It  is  my  doom — I  can  not 
escape.  Heaven  grant  me  strength  to  uear  it 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

How  often— ah,  how  often !— between  the  desire  of  th« 
heart  and  its  fulfillment  lies  only  the  briefest  soace  of 
time  or  distance,  and  yet  the  desire  remains 'forever 
unfulfilled !  It  is  so  near  that  we  can  touch  it  with  the 
hand,  and  yet  so  far  that  the  eye  can  not  behold  it. 

LONOFKLLOW 

Oh  !  for  a  borse  *v»*h  wings ! 

SlIAKSPEARE. 

"  FOUR  years  -  .four  years !" 

Eleanor  murmured,  these  words  to  herself,  in. 
that  half-melancholy  dreaminess  which  invari- 
ably comes  over  one  of  thoughtful  nature,  when 
standing,  no  matter  how  hopefully,  on  the  blink 
of  what  seems  a  crisis  in  life's  history.  The 
present  time  appeared  a  crisis  in  hers.  She 
was  going  to  Summerwood — going  where  she 
was  sure  to  meet  Philip.  Soon  the  long-afli 
anced  lovers  would  look  on  each  other's  foce. 
After  such  a  season  of  absence,  and  a  brief 
period  'of  silence,  almost  estrangement,  how 
would  they  meet  ?  Eleanor  had  no  doubt,  no 
dread,  in  her  faithful  heart;  but  still  she  was 
thoughtful,  and  when  all  the  preparations  for 
the  morrow's  journey  were  completed,  she  sat 
down  by  the  window  of  her  little  chamber,  and 
watched  the  twilight  shadows  deepen  on  the 
gray  cathedral,  saying  to  herself,  over  and  over 
again,  "  Four  years — four  years  !" 

It  was,  indeed,  thus  long  since  she  had  seen 
Philip.  Four  years  !  It  seems  a  short  time  to 
mattirer  age,  but  to  youth  it  is  an  eternity. 
Nineteen  and  twenty-three  !  What  a  gulf  often 
lies  between  the  two  periods  of  existence.  The 
child's  heart — many  a  young  girl  is  at  nineteen 
still  a  child — is  taken  away,  and  in  its  stead  has 
come  the  woman's,  which  must  beat  on,  on, 
loved  or  loveless,  enjoying  or  enduring  life  until 
life's  end  !  It  is  a  solemn  thing  to  have  traveled 
so  far  on  the  universal  road,  that  we  begin  to 
look  not  only  forward  but  backward — to  say, 
even  jestingly,  "  When  I  was  a  child."  And  to 
some  it  chances  that,  in  every  space  thus  jour- 
neyed over,  uprises  a  specter,  which  confronts 
them  with  its  ghastly  face  whenever  they  turn 
to  review  the  past ; — nay,  even  if  they  set  their 
faces  bravely  and  patiently  to  the  future,  they 
hear  continually  behind  them  its  haunting  foot- 
steps, mocking  each  onward  tread  of  theirs, 
and  knelling  into  their  hearts  the  eternal  "no 
more." 

On  Eleanor's  peaceful  life  this  bitterness  had 
not  passed.  To  her,  the  "  four  years"  on  which 
she  now  dreamily  mused  had  brought  little  out- 
ward change.  They  had  flowed  on  in  a  quiet, 
unbroken  routine  of  duties,  patiently  fulfilled, 
yet  somewhat  monotonous.  It  seemed  scarce  a 
month  since  she  and  Philip  had  sat  together 
that  sweet  spring  morning,  beneath  the  beautiful 
double  cherry-tree  on  which  she  now  looked. 
Yet,  since  then,  three  times  she  had  watched  its 
budding,  leafing,  flowering — had  watched  it 


THE  OGILVIES. 


alone!  And  the  clematis  which  that  same 
morning  in  the  playfulness  of  happy,  newly- 
betrothed  lovers,  they  together  planted  in  mem- 
*ry  of  the  day,  had  now  climbed  even  to  her 
window,  and  flung  therein  a  cloud  of  perfume. 
It  came  over  her  senses  wooingly,  like  the 
memory  of  those  dear  olden  times,  and  of  Philip's 
precious  love.  She  leaned  her  head  against  the 
casement,  and  drank  in  the  fragrance,  until  her 
eyes  filled  with  happy  tears. 

"  I  shall  see  him,  I  shall  see  him ! — soon,  ah, 
soon!"  she  whispered;  while  her  fancy  con- 
jured up  his  likeness,  as  she  used  to  watch  him, 
lying  on  the  grass  dreamily  in  summer  noons, 
with  the  light  falling  on  his  fair  hair  and  his 
delicate,  almost  boyish  cheek.  Picturing  him 
thus,  Eleanor  half  smiled  to  herself,  remember- 
ing that  Philip  was  no  boy  now— that  four  years 
must  have  given  him  quite  the  port  and  appear- 
ance of  a  man.  He  would  be,  ay,  almost  eight- 
and-twenty  now,  and  he  had  wrestled  with  the 
world,  and  gained  therein  fame  and  success. 
Ah,  he  would  not  look  like  the  Philip  whose 
boyish  grace  had  been  her  ideal  of  beauty  for 
so  long.  He  must  be  changed  in  that,  at  least. 
She  was  almost  sorry,  yet  proud  to  think  how 
great  he  had  become.  And  she — 

Eleanor  did  not  often  think'  of  herself,  es- 
pecially her  outward  self;  but  she  did  now. 
Yet  it  was  still  with  reference  to  him.  Was  she 
worthy  of  him?  In  her  heart — her  faithful, 
loving  heart — she  knew  she  was.  But  in  ex- 
ternal things  ?  When  she  thought  of  Philip — 
living  in  London,  gay,  courted,  moving  among 
the  talented  and  beautiful — and  herself,  a  simple 
country  girl,  who  had  spent  this  long  time  in 
complete  retirement,  and  patient  attendance  on 
querulous  age,  Eleanor  was  struck  by  a  passing 
feeling  of  anxiety.  She  was  no  heroine,  but  a 
very  woman.  She  rose  up,  half  unconsciously, 
and  looked  at  herself  in  the  mirror.  It  reflected 
a  face  not  beautiful,  but  full  of  a  sweetness  more 
winning  even  than  beauty.  Perhaps  the  cheek 
was  less  peach-like  and  had  a  straighter  curve, 
and  on  the  mouth,  instead  of  girlhood's  dimples, 
sat  a  meek,  calm  smile.  The  eyes — ah,  there 
Time  had  given,  rather  than  taken  away  ! — he 
had  left  still  the  true  heart  shining  from  them, 
and  had  added  thereto  the  deep,  thoughtful  soul 
of  matured  womanhood. 

Something  of  this  their  owner  herself  saw,  for 
she  smiled  once  more,  murmuring,  "  He  used  to 
love  my  eyes — I  think  he  will  love  them  still ! 
And  he  will  find  only  too  soon  how  dearly  they 
love  him,"  she  added,  as  her  gentle  heart,  nigh 
oppressed  with  the  wreight  of  its  joy  and  tender- 
ness, relieved  itself  with  what  sounded  almost 
like  a  sigh. 

"I  will  not  sit  thinking  any  more,  but  try 
and  find  something  to  do,"  said  Eleanor,  as  she 
roused  herself  from  her  dreamy  mood,  and  be- 
gan to  aTange  with  feminine  care  her  "proper- 
lies" — already  packed  up  for  the  gay  visit  which 
was  to  break  her  monotonous  life.  But  even  in 
this  occupation  the  one  thought  followed  her. 
She  was  always  neat  and  tasteful  in  her  dress, 
as  a  woman  should  be;  but  now  she  felt  con- 
scious of  having  selected  her  wardrobe  with 
more  than  usual  care.  The  colors  Philip  had 
liked — the  style  of  attire  that  once  pleased  his 
fancy— ever  a  poet's  fancy,  graceful  and  ideal- 
all  were  remembered.  It  was  a  trifling — per- 


h^ps  an  idle  thought — but  it  was  natural  and 
womanly;  showing  too  how  Love  binds  up  into 
itself  all  life's  aims  and  purposes,  great  and 
small ;  how  it  can  dare  the  world's  battle,  and 
sit  smiling  at  the  hearth — is  at  once  a  crowned 
monarch,  a  mighty  hero,  and  a  little  playful 
child. 

When  Eleanor's  hands  had  resolutely  busied 
themselves  for  some  minutes,  they  again  drooped 
listlessly  on  her  lap,  as  she  sat  down  on  the 
floor,  and  once  more  became  absorbed  in  pleas- 
ant musings.  She  was  roused  by  a  summons 
from  Davis.  Mrs.  Breynton  "wished  to  know 
whether  Miss  Ogilvie  intended  to  give  her  any 
of  her  company  this  evening ;  which  she  mi^ht 
well  do,  seeing  it  was  the  last." 

"You  must  excuse  the  message,  Miss  Elea- 
nor," said  the  old  servant;  " but  I  don't  wonder 
at  my  lady's  being  cross ;  she  will  miss  you  so 
much  ;  indeed  we  all  shall.  But  I  am  glad  you 
are  going ;  'tis  hard  for  a  young  creature  to  be 
kept  moping  here.  I  hope  you'll  have  a  pleas- 
ant visit,  Miss  Ogilvie,  though  the  house  will 
be  dull  without  your  pretty  face — God  bless  it !" 

Eleanor  thanked  her,  almost  tearfully,  for  her 
heart  was  very  full. 

"  And  you'll  come  back  as  blithe  and  bloom- 
ing as — "  the  old  woman  paused  for  a  simile 
— "as  my  canary  there,  which  poor  Master 
Phi —  Oh !  Miss  Ogilvie.  perhaps  in  that  great 
world  of  London  you  may  hear  something  of 
somebody  I  daren't  speak  about,  though  good- 
ness  knows  I've  never  forgotten  him — never!" 
And  the  unfailing  apron  was  lifted  to  poor 
Davis's  eyes. 

Eleanor  could  not  speak ;  but,  as  she  passed 
hastily  out  of  the  room,  her  delicate  fingers 
pressed  warmly  the  hard,  brown  hand  of  the 
faithful,  affectionate  creature,  who  remembered 
Philip  still.  Poor  Davis  was  proud  of  the  clasp 
as  long  as  she  lived. 

Mr».  Breynton  sat  in  her  arm-chair,  and  knit- 
ting vehemently  at  the  eternal  quilt,  which  was 
now  promoted  to  be  nearly  the  sole  occupation 
of  its  aged  projector,  whose  dimmed  eyes  and 
trembling  fingers  grew  daily  less  active  and 
more  helpless.  To-night  they  seemed  incompe" 
tent  even  to  the  simple  work  to  which  they  ap. 
plied  themselves  with  such  indignant  energy, 
for  the  perpetually  unroved  square  seemed  a 
very  Penelope's  web.  At  length,  when  the 
old  lady  had  knitted  away  her  wrath  and  her 
cotton,  she  looked  up,  and  saw  Eleanor  sitting 
near  her. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  you  intended  to  stay  up-stairs 
all  the  evening.  Pray,  how  long  is  it  since  you 
troubled  yourself  to  come  down  ?" 

"I  have  been  here  some  minutes,"  was  the 
gentle  answer. 


"  Why  did  you  not  speak,  then  ?" 
"I  did  once,  bi 


but  you  were  too  busy  to  hear 
me,  I  think.  Now,  shall  I  take  your  work 
away,  and  ring  for  tea?" 

Mrs.  Breynton  assented,  muttered  something 
about  the  chill  autumn  evening,  and  turned  her 
chair  opposite  the  fire,  so  that  her  face  was 
completely  hid.  Eleanor  went  about  the  light 
tiousehold  duty — now  wholly  hers — with  an  agi- 
tated heart,  for  there  came  upon  her  the  thought, 
natural  to  the  eve  of  a  journey — and  such  a 
journey — How  would  be  the  return?  When 
she  again  sat  at  Mrs.  Breynton's  board,  would 


THE  OGILV1ES. 


J03 


t'be  in  peace  and  hope,  or —  She  drove  away 
the  fear  :  she  could  not — would  not  think  of  it. 
She  would  btill  believe  in  Philip,  and  in  Philip's 
aunt. 

"  Shall  T  move  your  chair  hither,  or  bring 
your  tea  to  the  work-table  ?"  she  said,  trying  to 
steady  her  voice  to  its  usual  tone  of  affectionate 
attention. 

"  Bring  it  here.  I  may  as  well  get  used  to 
taking  tea  alone,"  muttered  Mrs.  Breynton. 
But  when  Eleanor  came  beside  her,  to  show,  for 
the  last  time,  the  simple  act  of  careful  tendance 
to  which  she  had  been  so  long  accustomed,  the 
ha»sh  voice  softened. 

"  Ah !  I  shall  have  no  one  to  make  tea  for 
me  to-morrow  night !  Indeed,  I  can't  tell  what 
I  shall  do  without  you,  Eleanor." 

And  instead  of  taking  the  offered  cup,  she 
gazed  wistfully  in  the  sweet  young  face  that 
was  now  becoming  troubled  and  tearful. 

"Dear  friend — dear  Mrs.  Breynton,  shall  I 
stay?" 

"  No,  no;  I  have  no  right  to  keep  you,"  hast- 
ily interrupted  Mrs.  Breynton,  as  though  some 
sudden  thought  had  crossed  her  mind ; . "  of 
course  your  friends  want  you,  and  you  yourself 
must  be  delighted  to  leave  this  dull  place." 

"Nay — was  it  not  by  your  own  consent — 


your  own  desire  ?" 
"I  desired  nothi 


ing. 


What  made  you  think 


so  ?"  cried  Mrs.  Breynton,  angrily.  There  was, 
indeed,  a  strange  and  painful  conflict  in  her 
mind.  Fearful  lest  all  hope  of  winning  back 
her  erring  yet  cherished  nephew  should  be  lost, 
and  pierced  deeper  and  deeper  with  a  feeling 
almost  akin  to  remorse,  she  had  determined  to 
risk  all  chance  of  discovery,  and  let  the  lovers 
meet.  Yet  when  the  time  came  she  trembled. 
Besides,  she  did  not  like  to  part  even  for  a  sea- 
son with  the  gentle  creature  who  had  become 
almost  necessary  to  her  comfort ;  age  can  ill 
bear  any  change  or  any  separation.  But  for  all 
that,  Eleanor  must  go ;  it  was  the  only  chance 
of  winning  him  for  whom  Mrs.  Breynton's  pride 
and  love  alike  yeajned  continually.  Her  feel- 
ings changed  hourly — momently — with  an  im- 
petuosity that  even  her  yet  energetic  mind  could 
scarce  conceal. 

"Eleanor,"  she  continued,  "do  not  mistake 
me :  you  go  by  your  own  choice,  and  your  friends' 
wish ;  I  have  no  right  to  interfere  with  either. 
But  you  will  come  back  ?" 

"  I  will,  indeed !  And,  oh  !  Mrs.  Breynton, 
if—" 

Eleanor  sank  down  beside  her.  There  was 
no  mistaking  the  plea  of  that  earnest  face — the 
one  plea  which  her  whole  life  of  duty  and  ten- 
derness silently  urged.  But  Mrs.  Breynton  turn- 
ed hastily  and  coldly  away. 

"  Rise,  and  go  to  your  place,  my  dear :  we 
will  talk  no  more  now." 

And  for  an  hour  afterward,  by  a  violent  con- 
trol which  showed  how  strong  still  was  her  lin- 
gering pride,  the  dean's  widow  maintained  her 
usual  indifference,  talked  of  common  things,  and 
made  no  allusion  to  the  journey  or  the  parting. 
At  last  she  took  out  her  watch,  and  desired 
Eleanor,  as  usual  to  call  the  servants  in  to 
prayers. 

The  girl  obeyed,  placed  the  cushion  and  the 
open  book,  as  she  had  done  every  night  for  so 
long,  and  knelt  down,  with  her  eyes  overflowing. 


Mrs.  Breynton  read  the  accustomed  form  in 
her  accustomed  tone,  save  that  when  she  insert- 
ed the  prescribed  prayer,  "for  one  about  to 
travel,"  her  voice  faltered;  she  paused  suddenly, 
and  then  with  a  strong  effort  went  on  to  the 
end. 

The  servants  gone,  she  and  Eleanor  stood 
alone. 

"  My  dear,  is  every  thing  prepared  for  your 
journey  to-morrow  ?"  said  Mrs.  Breynton,  break- 
ing the  silence. 

Eleanor  assented  mutely ;  she  could  not  speak. 

"You  will  take  as  escort  either  Davis  or 
James,  which  you  choose ;  either  can  return 
next  day." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  are  too  kind,"  said  Eleanor,  who, 
knew  what  it  cost  the  precise  old  lady  to  part, 
for  ever  so  short  a  time,  with  either  of  these 
her  long-trusted  domestics ;  "  indeed,  I  can 
travel  very  well  alone." 

"But  I  do  not  choose  my  child,  my  adopted 
daughter" — she  laid  a  faint  emphasis  on  the 
word — "to  do  any  such  thing.  The  matter  is 
decided." 

Pride  struggled  with  tenderness  in  her  man- 
ner,  and  still  she  stood  irresolute.  The  old  but 
ler  entered  with  lighted  candles. 

"James,"  said  his  mistress,  "you  will  accom- 
pany Miss  Ogilvie  to  her  journey's  end,  with  all 
care  and  attention,  as  though  she  were  my  own 
child." 

And  then,  finding  the  last  minute  had  indeed 
come,  Mrs.  Breynton  took  her  candle. 

"My  dear  Eleanor,  as  you  depart  so  soon, 
we  had  better  say  good-by  to-night." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  but  Eleanor  fell  on  her 
neck,  weeping  bitterly.  Mrs.  Breynton  began 
to  tremble. 

"Hush,  my  dear,  you  must  not  try  me  so;  I 
am  old,  I  can  not  bear  agitation."  She  sank 
on  a  chair,  struggled  a  momont,  and  then  stretch- 
ed out  her  hands. — "Eleanor — poor  Isabel's 
Eleanor — forgive  me.  Come  !" 

And  for  the  second  time  in  her  life,  the  child- 
less widow  folded  to  her  bosom  the  young  creat- 
ure from  whom,  in  her  old  age  she  had  learned, 
and  was  learning  more  and  more^  the  blessed 
lesson,  to  love. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  emotion  passed,  and  she 
rose  up. 

"Now,  my  child,  I  must  go.  Give  me  your 
arm  to  my  room  door,  for  I  am  weak  and  ex- 
hausted." 

"  And  you  will  not  let  me  see  you  in  the 
morning?" 

"  No,  my  dear,  no  ! — better  thus  !  You  will 
come  back  at  the  two  months'  end.  You  prom- 
ise?" And  her  searching  eyes  brought  the 
quick  color  into  Eleanor's  cheek.  , 

"I  promise!"  She  might  have  said  more, 
but  Mrs.  Breynton  moved  hastily  on  to  her 
chamber.  At  the  door  she  turned  round,  kissed 
the  girl's  cheek,  and  bade  God  bless  her. 

Then  from  Eleanor's  full  heart  burst  the  cry 
— "Bless  him — even  him  also!  Oh,  dearest 
friend,  let  me  take  with  me  a  blessing  for 
Philip!" 

At  the  name,  Mrs.  Breynton's  countenance 
became  stone  once  more.  All  her  wrath,  all 
her  sternness,  all  her  pride,  were  gathered  up 
in  one  word — 

"No!" 


J04 


THE  OG1LVIES. 


She  closed  the  door,  and  Eleanor  saw  her  not 
again.     But   for   hours   she   heard   the   feeble. 


the  next   chamber — and 
i'n  her  heaviness  the  girl  was  not  without 


aged  footstep  pacing 


hone 

Eleanor  awoke  at  dawn,  startled  from  her 
restless  sleep  by  one  of  those  fantastic  dreams 
that  will  scmefimes  come  on  the  eve  of  any 
great  joy,  in  which  we  rehearse  the  long-ex- 
pected bliss,  and  find  that,  by  the  intervention 
of  some  strange  "cloud  of  dole"  it  has  been 
changed  to  pain.  Philip's  betrothed  dreamed 
of  that  meeting,  the  hope  of  which,  waking,  had 
filled  her  whole  soul  with  happiness  almost  too 
great  to  bear.  She  saw  him,  but  his  face  was 
cold — changed.  He  turned  away  without  even 
a  clasp  of  the  hand ;  and  then  the  dream  became 
wild  and  unconnected — though  it  was  Philip — 
still  Philip.  She  was*  again  with  him,  and  the 
ground  seemed  suddenly  cloven,  while  a  tem- 
pestuous river  rushed  howling  between  them; 
it  grew  into  a  mighty  sea,  above  which  she  saw 
Philip  standing  on  a  rock-pinnacle,  his  averted 
face  lifted  to  the  sky,  his  deaf  ear  heeding  not 
the  despairing  cry  which  she  sent  up  from  the 
midst  of  the  ingulfing  waters. 

With  that  cry  she  awoke,  to  find — with,  oh  ! 
what  thankful  joy ! — that  these  were  but  dreams. 
Suddenly,  like  a  burst  of  sunshine,  the  joyful 
truth  broke  upon  her,  that  this  day — this  very 
day.  she  would  journey  toward  Philip — a  brief 
space,  perchance  a  few  hours,  and  they  would 
meet !  Once  more  burst  from  her  innocent 
heart  the  rapturous  murmur — "  I  shall  see  him ! 
I  shall  see  him!"  And  Eleanor  turned  her 
face  upon  the  pillow,  weeping  tears  of  happi- 
ness. 

Oh,  the  thrill  of  a  remembered  joy  that  comes 
with  waking — how  wild,  how  deep  it  is  !  Only 
second  to  that  keenest  pang,  the  first  waking 
consciousness  of  misery. 

Soon  Eleanor  arose,  saying  to  herself  the  old 
adage — she  had  an  innocent  superstition  lurking 
in  the  depths  of  her  simple  heart — "Morning 
tears  bring  evening  smiles ;"  and  she  thought, 
if  the  tears  were  so  sweet,  what  must  be  the 
bliss  of  her  snyles  !  So  she  made  ready  for  her 
departure  with  a  cheerful  spirit,  over  which 
neither  the  painful  dream,  nor  the  still  more 
painful  remembrance  of  Mrs.  Breynton's  last 
words,  could  throw  more  than  a  passing  cloud. 

As  though  to  confirm  this  joy,  Davis  knocked 
at  her  chanrber-door,  with  an  affectionate  fare- 
well message  from  Mrs.  Breynton,  and  a  letter. 
It  was  from  Sir  Robert  Ogilvie,  begging  his 
niece  to  hasten  her  journey,  so  as  to  accompany 
him  that  night  to  his  daughter's  house.  "It 
was  Katharine's  especial  wish,"  he  said;  and 
Katharine's  wish  had  long  become  law  with 
father,  mother,  and  husband  too.  "Eleanor 
could  easily  reach  Summerwood  by  the  after- 
noon," her  uncle  continued,  "  thanks  to  the  rail- 
way— the  only  useful  innovation  that  the  hateful 
march-of-5ntellect  radicals  had  ever  made." 

Eleanor  read  Katharine's  inclosed  letter  of 
warm  invitation.  It  bore  the  following  post- 
script : — "  If  you  come,  you  will  see  one  who 
will  doubtless  be  also  much  pleased  to  see  you 
— your  old  acquaintance,  Mr.  Wychnor." 

What  a  world  of  joy  lay  in  that  idly-scribbled 
line! 

"To-nigut,  to-night !"  cried  Eleanor,  as  be- 


wildered— almost  stunned — by  the  certainty  of 
the  coming  bliss,  she  sank  on  the  bed  and  hid 
her  face.  Thence,  gliding  to  her  knees,  the  first 
impulse  of  that  pure  and  true  heart  was  one,  the 
sacredness  of  which  received  no  taint  thereby — 
a  thanksgiving  lifted  to  Him  who  gave  Eve  unto 
Adam,  and  Sarah  unto  Abraham,  and  whose 
first  act  of  heaven-descended  power  was  at  the 
marriage  at  Cana. 

Once  again,  ere  the  last  moment  of  departure 
came,  Eleanor  entered  her  little  chamber,  shut 
the  door,  and  prayed  that  she  might  return 
thither  in  safety  and  in  joy ;  and  then,  all  bitter- 
ness reconciled,  pass  from  this  home  of  patient 
duty  into  another  far  dearer,  and  thus  faithfully 
fulfill  woman's  highest,  holiest  destiny,  that  of  a 
loving  and  devoted  wife.  And  as  she  arose,  the 
sun  burst  through  the  gray  morning  clouds,  arid 
the  cathedral  chimes  rang  out  joyfully,  yet  with 
a  sweet  solemnity.  Their  sound  followed  hei 
like  a  parting  blessing. 

And  so,  borne  cheerily  on  the  "horse  with 
wings,"  which  to  her  was  as  welcome  and  as 
full  of  poetry  as  that  dream-creation  of  Imogen's 
desire,  Eleanor  sped  on  to  Summerwood. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

I  saw  it — 

'Twas  no  foul  vision— with  unblinded  eyes 
I  saw  it !  his  fond  hands  were  wreathed  in  hers 

He  gazed  upon  her  face, 

Even  with  those  fatal  eyes  no  woman  looks  at. 

May'st  thou 

Ne'er  know  the  racking  anguish  of  this  hour — 
The  desolation  of  this  heart ! 

MILMAN 

THE  circle  assembled  in  Hugh  Ogilvie's  draw 
ing-room  was  the  very  perfection  of  a.  social 
dinner-party.  Every  body  knew  every  body,  or 
nearly  so.  There  was  Mrs.  Lancaster  flitting 
about  as  usual  in  her  gossamer  drapery,  and  he» 
shadow  of  a  husband  still  hovering  beside  her-— 
the  reflection  of  her  glory.  There  was  David 
Drysdale  pursuing  his  new  science — the  study 
of  humanity  in  general;  with  especial  reference 
to  Paul  Lynedon,  whose  movements  he  watched 
with  Argus  eyes.  The  object  of  his  scrutiny, 
however,  was  unconscious  of  the  fact.  Paul 
moved  hither  and  thither,  casting  in  all  directions 
his  -graceful  and  brilliant  talk ;  but  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  found  himself  quite  indifferent  as 
to  the  sensation  he  created  among  the  general 
company.  They  seemed  to  him  like  a  moving 
phantasmagoria  of  shadows ;  among  them  he 
saw  but  one  form,  heard  but  one  voice — and 
these  were  Katharine  Ogilvie's. 

She  knew  this,  too :  though  he  did  not  keep 
constantly  at  her  side,  she  felt  his  eyes  upon 
her  wherever  she  moved.  She  was  conscious 
that  not  one  word  from  her  lips,  not  one  silken 
stirring  of  her  robe,  escaped  the  notice  of  Paul 
Lynedon.  The  thought  made  her  eyes  glitter 
with  triumph.'  She  felt  that  she  had  only  to 
stretch  forth  her  arm,  to  lay  her  delicate  hand 
on  the  lion's  mane,  and,  Ariadne-like,  she  would 
ride  victoriously  on  the  beautiful  Terror  which 
had  once  trampled  on  her  peace.  Exultingly 
she  disp  ayed  the  pow^r  which  had  gained  her 
universa.  homage — the  lofty  and  careless  defi- 
ance that  only  subdued  the  more. 

Yet,  eould  any  eyes  have  pierced  through 


THE  OGILVIES. 


105 


that  outward  illusion,  they  might  perchance 
have  seen  behind  the  lovely,  queen-like,  radiant 
woman,  the  shadow  of  an  angel — the  angel  of 
Katharine's  lost  youth — mourning  for  her  future. 
And  ever  and  anon,  piercing  through  the  clouds 
that  were  fast  darkening  over  the  wife's  soul, 
came  a  low  whisper,  warning  her  that  even  an 
erring  marriage-vow  becomes  sacred  forever ; 
and  that  to  break  it,  though  only  in  thought,  is 
a  sin  which  oceans  of  penitent  tears  can  scarcely 
wash  away. 

To  none  of  her  guests  was  Mrs.  Ogilvie  more 
gracefully  courteous  than  to  the  silent,  reserved 
Philip  Wychnor.  During  the  half  hour  that 
elapsed  before  dinner,  her  magic  influence 
melted  from  his  troubled  spirit  many  of  those 
frosty  coverings  in  which  he  unconsciously  en 
veloped  himself  in  society.  A  man  instinctively 
lays  his  soul  open  before  a  woman,  much  more 
than  before  one  of  his  own  sex ;  and  had  Katha- 
rine been  less  absorbed  in  the  struggles  of  her 
own  heart,  she  might  have  read  much  of  Wych- 
nor's,  even  without  his  knowledge. 

At  length  there  mingled  in  her  winning  speech 
the  name — so  loved,  yet  so  dreaded  by  her 
hearer. 

"I  hope,  after  all,  that  you  will  meet  your 
old  friend  Eleanor  to-night.  My  father  told  me 
she  was  expected  at  Suramerwood  to-day,  so  I 
entreated  him  to  bring  her  hither." 

Philip  made  no  answer  :  despite  his  iron  will, 
he  felt  stifling — gasping  for  air. 

"  You  are  not  well — sit  down,"  observed  the 
young  hostess,  kindly ;  "  I  ought  not  to  have 
kept  you  standing  talking  so  long." 

He  sank  on  a  chair,  muttering  that  blessed 
excusu  for  a  tortured  heart,  something  about  an 
overworked  mind. 

"  I  thought  so ;  indeed,  an  author's  calling 
must  be  one  most  trying,  though  so  lofty.  You 
must  take  care  of  yourself,  Mr.  Wychnor ;  I 
will  not  say  for  the  world's  sake,  but  for  that  of 
your  manv  friends  :  among  them,"  she  added, 
smiling  with  pleasant  cordiality,  "I  hope  to  be 
numbered  one  day  ;  and  when  Eleanor  comes — " 
He  turned  away,  and  his  eyes  encountered 
Lynedon's.  The  latter  was  apparently  listen- 
ing eagerly  to  each  word  that  fell  from  Mrs. 
Ogilvie's  lips.  Philip  shuddered !  he  deemed 
that  the  spell  lay  in  the  sound  of  the  beloved 
name,  when  it  was  only  in  the  voice  that  uttered 
it.  But  he  had  scarce  time  to  collect  his 
thoughts,  when  the  drawing-room  door  opened 
and  Hugh  burst  in,  with  somewhat  of  the  old 
cheerfulness  brightening  his  heavy  features. 

"Katharine,  make  haste  :  they're  both  come, 
your  father  and  our  dear  Nelly.  I'm  so  glad  !" 
"  And  so  am  I,"  answered  Katharine,  for  once 
echoing  hn*  husband ;  and,  making  her  own 
graceful  excuses  to  her  guests,  she  glided  from 
the  room. 

As  she  did  so,  Philip  looked  up  with  a  wild, 
bewildered  air,  and  again  caught  the  eager  gaze 
of  Paul  Lynedon  fixed  on  the  closing  door.  He 
started  from  his  seat,  conscious  only  of  a  vague 
desire  to  fly — any  where,  on  any  pretext — so  as 
to  escape  the  torture  of  the  scene.  But  Drys- 
dale  intercepted  him. 

*'  Eh,  my  young  friend,  what's  this  ?  Where 
are  you  going  ?" 

"  I— I  can  not  tell—" 

•'Nothing  the  matter?  not  ill  ?"    And,  fol- 


lowing the  old  man's  affectionate,  anxious  look, 
came  the  curious  and  surprised  glance  of  Lyne- 
don. Beneath  it  Philip's  agony  sank  into  a 
deadly  calm. 

Once  again  he  said  in  his  heart,  "  It  is  my 
doom.  I  cannot  flee;  I  must  endure"  He 
had  just  strength  to  creep  to  a  shadowy  corner 
of  the  room,  apart  from  all.  There  he  sat 
down,  and  waited  in  patient,  dull  despair,  for 
the  approach  of  her  whom  he  siill  loved  dearer 
than  his  life. 

There  were  voices  without  the  door.  Lyne 
don  sprang  to  open  it.  It  was  in  answer  to  his 
greeting  that  Philip's  half-maddened  ear  distin- 
guished the  first  tone  of  that  beloved  voice,  un- 
heard for  years  except  in  dreams.  Soft  it  was, 
and  sweet  as  ever,  and  tremulous  with  gladness. 
Gladness  !  when  she  knew  that  he,  once  loved, 
and  then  so  cruelly  forsaken,  was  in  her  pres- 
ence, and  heard  all ! 

"  Well,  this  is  a  hearty  welcome  !  You  will 
hardly  let  her  pass.  Make  way,  some  of  you," 
said  Hugh's  blithe  voice.  "Come  in,  Nelly." 

She  came  in,  pale  but  smiling — no  set  smile 
of  forced  courtesy,  but  one  which  betokened  a 
happy  heart;  her  own,  her  very  own  smile, 
shining  in  eyes  and  lips,  and  making  her  whole 
face  beautiful. 

Philip  saw  it,  and  then  a  cold  mist  seemed  to 
enwrap  him — through  which  he  beheld  men  and 
women,  and  moving  lights,  indistinct  and  vague. 
Yet  still  he  sat,  leaning  forward,  as  though  at- 
tent  to  the  last  dull  saying  of  his  dull  neighbor: 
Mr.  Lancaster. 

And  Eleanor  !  Oh  !  if  he  had  known  that  in 
all  the  room  she  saw  only  one  face — his  !  that 
she  passed  the  welcoming  group  scarce  con- 
scious of  their  greetings — that  through  them 
all  her  whole  soul  flew  to  him,  yearning  to  cling 
to  his  bosom — nay,  even  to  fall  at  his  feet — in  a 
transport  of  rejoicing  that  they  had  met  at  last ! 
Yet,  when  she  stood  before  him — when  she 
held  out  her  hand,  she  could  scarce  speak  one 
word.  She  dared  not  even  lift  her  eyes,  lest  she 
should  betray  the  joy,  which  was  almost  too 
great  to  conceal.  It  blanched  her  smiling  lips, 
made  her  frame  tremble,  and  her  voice  grow 
measured  and  cold. 

And  thus  they  met,  in  the  midst  of  strangers, 
w  ith  one  passing  clasp  of  the  hand,  one  formal 
greeting ;  and  then  either  turned  away,  to  hide 
from  the  world  and  from  each  other  at  once  the 
agony  and  the  gladness. 

For  in  Eleanor's  heart  the  gladness  lingered 
still.  A  momentary  pang  she  had  felt,  that 
they  should  meet  thus  coldly,  even  in  outward 
show — but  still  she  doubted  him  not.  Philip 
must  be  right — he  must  be  true.  A  few  minutes* 
ipace,  and  he  would  surely  find  some  opportu- 
nity to  steal  to  her  side — to  give  her  one  word 
— one  loving  smile,  which  might  show  that  they 
were  still  to  one  another  as  they  had  been  for 
years — nay,  all  their  lives  !  So  she  glided  from 
the  group  around  Katharine,  to  calm  her  beat- 
"ng  heart,  and  gather  strength  even  to  bear  her 
oy. 

She  sat  down,  choosing  a  place  where  she 
could  see  him  who  was  to  her  all  in  the  room— 
all  in  the  world  !  She  watched  him  continually, 
talking  or  in  repose.  He  was  greatly  altered 
— much  older ;  the  face  harsher  in  its  lines,  now 
almost  rigid  with  suppressed  anguish ;  but  he 


100 


THE  OGILVIES. 


Plf'ip  still.  Gradually,  amidst  all  the 
.  the  former  likeness  grew,  and  these 
four  years  of  bitter  separation  seemed  melted 
into  nothing.  She  saw  again  the  playmate  of 
Her  childhood— the  lover  of  her  youth— her 
chosen  husband.  She  waited  tremblingly  for 
him  to  come  to  her,  to  say  only  in  one  look  that 
he  remembered  the  sweet  past. 

But  he  never  came !  She  saw  him  move,  talk- 
ino-  to  one  guest  and  then  another.  At  last  they 
all  left  him,  and  he  stood  alone.  He  would  sure- 
ly seek  her  now  ?  No.  he  did  not  even  turn  his 
eyes,  but  sank  wearily  into  a  chair ;  and  above 
the  murmur  of  heedless  voices,  there  came  to 
Eleanor  his  heavy  sigh. 

She  started :  one  moment  more,  and  she  would 
have  cast  aside  all  maidenly  pride  and  crept 
nearer  to  him,  only  to  look  in  his  face,  and  say, 
"Philip!"  But  in  that  instant  Mrs.  Lancaster 
approached  him,  and  she  heard  his  -voice  answer- 
ing some  idle  speech  with  the  calmness  it  had 
learnt — in  the  heartless  world,  she  thought — 
knowing  not  that  love's  agony  gives  to  its  mar- 
tyrs a  strength,  almost  superhuman,  to  endure, 
and,  enduring,  to  conceal. 

She  saw  him  speak  and  smile — ay,  smile — 
and  an  icy  fear  crept  over  her.  It  seemed  the 
shadow  of  that  terrible  "no  more,"  which  some- 
times yawns  between  the  present  and  past.  Oh, 
all  ye  loving  ones,  pray  rather  that  your  throb- 
bing hearts  may  grow  cold  in  the  tomb,  than 
that  you  should  live  to  feel  them  freezing  slow- 
ly in  your  bosoms,  and  be  taught  by  their  al- 
tered beatings  to  say,  calmly,  "  The  time  has 
been!" 

"  It  so  chanced  that  Paul  Lynedon  led  Eleanor 
down  to  dinner.  He  did  it  merely  because  she 
happened  to  stand  near  Mrs.  Ogilvie.  The  lat- 
ter, with  feminine  willfulness,  had  turned  from 
him  and  taken  the  arm  of  her  friend  David  Drys- 
dale,  over  whom  she  had  long  since  cast  the 
spell  of  a  winning  gentleness,  all  the  more  irre- 
sistible because  with  her  so  unusual. 

These  formed  the  group  at  the  head  of  the 
table ;  Philip  sat  far  apart,  placed  by  his  own  will 
where  he  could  not  see  the  face  of  either  Paul 
or  Eleanor.  But  their  tones  came  to  him  through 
the  dazzling,  bewildering  mist  of  light  and  sound; 
every  word,  especially  the  rare  utterances  of  El- 
eanor's low  voice,  piercing  distinct  and  clear 
through  all. 

Philip's  neighbor  was  Mrs.  Lancaster,  who, 
now  feeling  herself  sinking  from  that  meridian 
altitude  which,  as  the  central  sun  of  a  petty  lit- 
erary sphere,  she  had  long  maintained,  caught 
at  every  chance  of  ingratiating  herself  with  any 
rising  author.  She  mounted  her  high  horse  of 
sentiment  and  feeling,  and  cantered  it  gently  on 
through  a  long  criticism  of  Wyehnor's  last  work. 
Then,  finding  the  chase  was  vain,  for  that  he 
only  answered  in  polite  monosyllables,  she  tried 
another  and  less  lofty  style  of  conversation — re- 
marks and  tittle-tattle,  concerning  her  friends 
absent  and  present.  She  was  especially  led  to 
this  by  the  mortification  of  seeing  her  former  pro- 
tege, Paul  Lynedon,  so  entirely  escaped  from 
under  her  wing. 

"How  talkative  that  young  Lynedon  has 
grown !"  she  said,  sharply.  "  I  never  saw  such 
a  change.  Why,  he  used  to  be  so  shy,  and  proud, 
and  reserved ;  and  now  he  seems  tc  have  become 
(juke  a  lion  in  society  What  an  argument  he 


is  holding  with  Mrs.  Ogilvie  and  her  sister !  y. 
the-by,  perhaps  that  may  account  for  his  brillian- 
cy to-night." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  answered  Philip,  absently. 

"Ah,  the  affair  was  before  your  time,  Mr. 
Wychnor,"  said  the  lady  mysteriously;  "but 
some  years  ago  I  really  imagined  it  would  have 
been  a  match  between  Miss  Eleanor  Ogilvie 
and  Paul  Lynedon  there.  How  he  admired  her 
singing,  and  herself,  too  !  Not  that  /  ever  could 
see  much  in  either;  But  love  is  blind,  you 

.  *.  * 

know. 

"  Mrs.  Lancaster,  allow  me  to  take  wine  with 
you,"  interrupted  Paul,  who  from  the  other  end 
of  the  table  had  accidentally  caught  the  sound 
of  his  own  name  united  with  Eleanor's,  and  was 
in  mortal  fear  lest  Mrs.  Lancaster's  tenacious 
memory  should  be  recalling  her  former  badinage 
on  the  subject. 

Philip  sat  silent.  His  cup  of  agony  seemed 
overflowing.  But  ere  his  lips  approached  the 
brim,  an  angel  came  by  and  touched  it,  chang- 
ing the  gall  into  a  healing  draught.  On  the 
young  man's  agonized  ear  came  the  mention  of 
one  name — the  name  of  the  Dead.  What  mat- 
ter though  it  was  uttered  by  the  frivolous  tongue 
of  Mrs.  Lancaster,  to  whom  Leigh  Pennythorne 
and  his  sufferings  were  merely  a  vehicle  for  sen- 
timental pity !  Even  while  she  pronounced  the 
name,  surely  some  heavenly  ministrant  caught 
up  the  sound  and  caused  it  to  fall  like  balm  on 
Philip  Wyehnor's  heart.  The  casual  words  car- 
ried his  thoughts  away  from  all  life's  tortures,  to 
the  holy  peace  of  death.  They  brought  back  to 
him  the  dark,  still  room,  where,  holding  the  boy's 
damp  hand,  he  had  talked  with  him,  solemnly, 
joyfully,  of  the  glorious  after-world.  Then  came 
floating  across  his  memory,  the  calm  river  sun- 
set— the  last  look  at  the  moon-illumined,  peace- 
ful image,  on  whose  cold  lips  yet  lingered  the 
smile  of  the  parted  soul.  Even  now,  amidst  this 
torturing  scene,  the  remembrance  lilted  Philip's 
writhing  heart  from  its  earth-sufferings,  toward 
the  blessed  eternity  where  all  these  should  be 
counted  but  as  a  drop  in  the  balance. 

If  the  thorns  of  life  pierce  keenest  into  the 
poet's  soul,  Heaven  and  Heaven's  angels  are 
nearer  to  him  than  to  the  worldly  man.  Philip 
Wychnor  grew  calmer,  and  his  thoughts  rose 
upward,  where,  far  above  both  grief  and  joy, 
amidst  the  glories  of  the  ideal  and  the  blessedness 
of  the  divine,  a  great  and  pure  mind  sits  serene. 
Thither,  when  they  have  endured  a  while,  does 
the  All-compassionate,  even  in  life,  lift  the  souls 
of  these  His  children,  and  give  them  to  stand, 
Moses-like,  on  the  lonely  height  of  this  calm 
Pisgah.  Far  below  lies  the  wilderness  through 
which  their  weary  feet  have  journeyed.  But 
God  turns  their  faces  from  the  past,  and  they  be- 
hold no  more  the  desert,  but  the  Canaan. 

There  was  a  fluttering  of  silken  dresses  as  the 
hostess  and  her  fair  companions  glided  away. 
Philip  did  not  look  up  ;  or  he  might  have  caught 
fixed  on  his  face  a  gaze  so  full  of  mournful,  anx- 
ious tenderness,  that  it  would  have  pierced 
through  the  thickest  clouds  of  jealous  doubt  and 
suspicion.  He  felt  that  Eleanor  passed  him  by, 
though  his  eyes  were  lifted  no  higher  than  the 
skirt  of  her  robe.  But  on  her  left  hand,  which 
lay  like  a  snow-flake  among  the  black  folds,  he 
saw  a  ring,  his  own  gift — his  only  one.  for  lova 
like  theirs  needed  no  outward  token.  She  huu 


THE  OG1LVIES. 


107 


promised  on  their  betrothal-eve  that  it  should 
never  be  taken  off,  save  for  the  holier  symbol  of 
marnage.  How  could  she — how  dared  she — 
wear  it  now !  One  bright  gleam  of  light  shot 
almost  blindingly  through  Philip's  darkness,  as 
he  beheld ;  the  deep  calm  fled  from  his  heart, 
and  it  was  again  racked  with  suspense.  He  sat 
motionless  ;  the  loud  talk  and  laughter  of  Hugh 
Ogilvie,  and  the  vapid  murmurings  of  Mr.  Lan- 
caster, floating  over  him  confusedly. 

Paul  Lynedon  had  already  disappeared  from 
the  dining-room.  He  could  not  drive  from  his 
mind  the  vague  fear  lest  his  foolish  affair  with 
Eleanor  Ogilvie  should  be  bruited  about  in  some 
way  or  other.  He  longed  for  those  allegorical 
implements — a  silver  needle,  and  golden  thread 
— to  sew  up  Mrs.  Lancaster's  ever-active  tongue. 

And,  judging  feminine  nature  by  the  blurred 
and  blotted  side  on  which  he  had  viewed  it  for 
the  last  few  years,  he  felt  considerable  doubt 
even  of  that  pure  image  of  all  womanly  delicacy, 
Eleanor  herself.  If  she  had  betrayed,  or  should 
now  betray,  especially  to  Katharine  Ogilvie,  the 
secret  of  his  folly !  He  would  not  have  such  a 
thing  happen  for  the  world!  Wherefore,  he 
staid  not  to  consider;  for  Paul's  impetuous  feel- 
ings were  rarely  subjected  to  much  self-ex- 
amination. Acting  on  their  impulse  now,  he 
bent  his  pride  to  that  stronger  passion  which 
was  insensibly  stealing  over  him ;  and  first  assur- 
ing himself  that  his  fellow-adventurer  in  the 
drawing-room,  David  Drysdale,  was  safely  en- 
grossing the  conversation  of  their  beautiful 
hostess,  Lynedon  carelessly  strolled  toward  an 
inner  apartment  divided  from  the  rest  by  a 
glass-door,  through  which  he  saw  Eleanor  Ogil- 
vie, sitting  thoughtful  and  alone. 

"Now  is  my  time,"  said  Paul  to  himself,  "but 
I  must  accomplish  the  matter  with  finesse  and 
diplomacy.  What  a  fool  I  was,  ever  to  have 
brought  myself  into  such  a  scrape!" 

He  walked  with  as  much  indifference  as  he 
could  assume  through  the  half-open  door,  which 
silently  closed  after  him.  He  was  rather  glad 
of  this,  for  th?n  there  would  be  no  eaves-drop- 
pers. Eleanor  looked  up,  and  found  herself 
alone  with  the  lover  she  had  once  rejected.  But 
there  was  no  fear  of  his  again  imposing  on  her 
the  same  painful  necessity ;  for  a  more  careless, 
good-humored  smile  never  sat  on  the  face  of  the 
most  indifferent  acquaintance,  than  that  which 
Paul  Lynedon's  countenance  now  wore. 

"Do  I  intrude  on  your  meditations,  Miss 
Ogilvie  ?  If  so,  send  me  away  at  once,  which 
will  be  treating  me  with  the  candor  of  an  old 
friend.  But  I  had  rather  claim  the  privilege  in 
a  different  way,  and  be  allowed  to  stay  and  have 
a  little  pleasant  chat  with  you." 

Eleanor's  troubled  heart  would  fain  have  been 
lefy;o  solitude ;  but  through  life  she  had  thought 
of  others  first — of  herself  last.  It  gave  her  true 
pleasure,  that  by  meeting  Lynedon's  frankness 
with  equal  cordiality  she  could  atone  to  the 
friend  for  the  pain  once  given  to  the  lover.  So 
she  answered  kindly,  "Indeed,  I  shall  be  quite 
glad  to  renew  our  old  sociable  talks,  which  you 
know,  Mr.  Lynedon,  were  always  agreeable  to 
me." 

"Then  we  are  friends — real,  open-hearted, 
sincere  friends,"  answered  Paul,  returning  her 
smile  with  one  of  equal  candor.  "And,"  he 
added  in  a  lower  tone,  "to  make  our  friendship 


sure,  I  trust  Miss  Ogilvie  has  already  forgotten 
that  I  ever  had  the  presumption  to  aspire  to 
more?" 

Eleanor  replied,  with  mingled  sweetness  and 
dignity — 

"I  remember  only  what  was  pleasurable  in 
our  acqaintance.  Be  assured  that .  the  pain, 
which  I  am  truly  glad  to  see  has  passed  from 
your  memory,  rests  no  longer  on  mine.  We 
will  not  speak  or  think  of  it  again,  Mr.  Lyne- 
don." 

But  Paul  still  hesitated.  "  Except  that  I  may 
venture  to  express  one  hope — indeed  I  should 
rather  say  a  conviction.  I  feel  sure  that,  with 
one  so  generous  and  delicate-minded,  this — this 
circumstance  has  remained,  and  will  ever  re- 
main, unrevealed?" 

"Can  you  doubt  it?"  And  a  look  as  nearly 
approaching  pride  as  Eleanor's  gentle  counten 
ance  could  assume,  marked  her  wounded  feeling. 
"  I  thought  that  you  would  have  judged  more 
worthily  of  me — of  any  woman." 

"  Of  you,  indeed,  I  ought.  I  am  ashamed  of 
myself,  Miss  Ogilvie,"  cried  Lynedon,  giving 
way  to  a  really  sincere  impulse  of  compunction, 
and  gazing  in  her  face  with  something  of  his  old 
reverence.  "I  do  believe  you,  as  ever,  the  kind- 
est, noblest  creature — half-woman,  half-saint; 
and,  except  that  I  am  unworthy  of  the  boon,  it 
would  be  a  blessing  to  me  through  life  to  call 
you  friend." 

"  Indeed  you  shall  call  me  so,  and  I  will  strive 
to  make  the  title  justly  mine,"  said  Eleanor, 
with  a  bright,  warm-hearted  smile,  as  she 
stretched  out  her  hand  to  him. 

He  took  it,  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  Neithei 
saw  that  on  this  instant  a  shadow  darkened  the 
transparent  door,  and  a  face,  passing  by  chance, 
looked  in.  It  was  the  face  of  Philip  Wychnor ! 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

Better  trust  all,  and  be  deceived  ; 

And  weep  that  trust  and  that  deceiving  ; 
Than  doubt  one  heart,  which  if  believed, 

Had  blessed  one's  life  with  true  believing 

Oh  !  in  this  mocking  world,  too  fast 
The  doubting  fiend  o'ertakes  our  youth  ; 

Better  be  cheated  to  the  last 
Than  lose  the  blessed  hope  of  truth  ! 

FRANCES  ANNK  BUTLER. 

"  WELL,  I  never  in  my  life  knew  a  fellow  sc 
altered  as  that  Philip  Wychnor!"  cried  Hugh. 
as  he  entered  his  wife's  dressing-room.  His 
sister  had  fled  there  to  gain  a  few  minutes' 
quiet  and  strength,  after  her  somewhat  painful 
interview  with  Lynedon,  and  before  the  still 
greater  trial  of  the  formal  evening  that  was  ta 
come.  As  she  lay  on  the  couch,  wearied  in 
heart  and  frame,  there  was  ever  in  her  thought 
the  name  which  her  brother  now  uttered  care- 
lessly —  almost  angrily.  It  made  her  start  with 
added  suffering.  Hugh  continued  — 

"  I  suppose  he  thinks  it  so  fine  to  have  grown 
an  author  and  a  man  of  genius,  that  he  may  d< 
any  thing  he  likes,  and  play  off  all  sorts  of  air*. 
on  his  old  friends." 


"  Nay,  Hugh,  what  has  he  done  ?"  said 
nor,  her  heart  sinking  colder  and  colder. 

"Only  that,    after    all  the   trouble   we   hi 
to  get  him  here  to-night,  he  has  gone  off  ju 


108 


THE  OG1LVIES. 


now  without  having  even  the  civility  to   say 
good-by." 

"Go'ne!  is  he  gone?"  and  she  started  up; 
but  recollected  herself  in  time  to  add,  "You 
forget,  he  might  have  been  ill." 

"in? — nonsense!"  cried  Hugh,  as  he  stood 
lazily  lolling  against  the  window.  "  Look,  there 
he  goes,  tearing  across  the  Park  as  if  he  were 
having  a  walking-match,  or  racing  with  Brown 
Bess  herself.  There's  a  likely  fellow  to  be  ill ! 
Phew,  it's  only  a  vagary  for  effect — I've  learnt 
these  games  since  I  married.  But  I  must  go 
down  to  this  confounded  soiree."  And  he  loung- 
ed off  moodily. 

The  moment  he  was  gone,  Eleanor  sprang  to 
the  window.  It  was  indeed,  Philip— she  saw 
him  clearly :  his  slender  figure  and  floating  fair 
hair — looking  shadowy,  almost  ghostlike,  in  the 
moonlight.  He  walked  rapidly;  nay  flew!  It 
might  have  been  a  fiend  that  was  pursuing  him, 
instead  of  the  weeping  eyes,  the  outstretched 
arms,  the  agonized  murmur,  "  Philip,  my  Philip !" 
He  saw  not,  he  heard  not,  but  sped  onward 
— disappeared !  Then  Eleanor  sank  down,  nigh 
broken-hearted.  tVas  this  the  blessed  meeting, 
the  day  so  longed  for,  begun  in  joy  to  end  in 
misery  ? 

No,  not  all  misery ;  for  when  the  first  bitter- 
ness passed,  and  she  began  to  think  calmly,  there 
dawned  the  hope  that  Philip  loved  her  still. 
His  very  avoidance  of  her,  that  heavy  sigh,  most 
of  all,  his  sudden  departure,  as  though  he  had 
fled,  unable  to  endure  her  presence — all  these 
showed  that  his  heart  had  not  grown  utterly  cold. 
He  had  loved  her  once — she  believed  that.  She 
would  have  believed  it  though  the  whole  world 
had  borne  testimony  against  it,  and  against  him. 
It  was  impossible  but  that  some  portion  of  this 
deep,  true  love  must  linger  still.  Some  unac- 
countable change  had  come  over  him — some 
great  sorrow  or  imagined  wrong  had  warped  his 
mind. 

And  then  she  remembered  the  little  cloud 
which  had  risen  up  between  them,  and  grown 
into  weeks,  months,  of  silence.  But  whatever 
had  been  the  estrangement,  if  the  love  were  still 
there,  in  his  heart  as  in  her  own,  she  would  win 
him  back  yet ! 

"Yes,"  she  cried,  "I  will  have  patience.  I 
will  put  from  me  all  pride — all  resentment.  If 
there  has  been  wrong,  I  will  be  the  first  to  say, 
forgive  me !  He  is  still  the  same — good  and 
true — I  see  it  in  his  face,  I  feel  it  in  my  soul. 
How  could  it  be  otherwise?" 

Hugh's  half-mocking,  half-angry  words  con- 
cerning him  troubled  her  for  a  moment.  She 
heaved  a  low,  shuddering  sigh,  and  then  the 
Buffering  passed. 

"  Even  if  so,  1  will  not  despair.  Oh,  my 
Philip,  if  it  be  that  you  are  changed,  that  this 
evil  world  has  cast  its  shadow  over  your  pure 
heart,  still  I  will  not  leave  you.  You  were  mine 
—you  are  mine,  in  suffering — even  in  sin !  I 
will  stand  by  you,  and  pray  God  night  and  day 
or  you,  and  never,  never  give  you  up,  until  you 
ire  my  true,  noble  Philip  once  more." 

She  stood,  her  clasped  hands  raised,  her  face 
shining  with  a  faith  all-perfect — faith  in  Heaven, 
%nd  faith  in  him.  Oh,  men !  to  whom  woman's 
X)ve  is  a  light  jest,  a  haughty  scorn,  how  know 
you  but  that  you  drive  from  your  pathway  and 
from  your  side  a  guardian  presence,  which,  in 


blessing  and  in  prayer,  might  have  been  for  you 
as  omnipotent  as  an  angel  ? 

Mrs.  Ogilvie  entered,  while  her  sister  still 
stood,  pale  and  thoughtful,  in  the  moonlight. 
Katharine  was  restless — her  cheek  burned  and 
her  eye  glittered.  The  contrast  was  never  so 
strong  between  the  two. 

"Why,  what  is  this,  my  dear  girl?"  At 
another  time  Eleanor  would  have  smiled  at  the 
half-patronizing  title,  but,  as  the  tall,  magnificent- 
looking  woman  of  the  world  bent  over  her,  she 
felt  that  it  was  scarcely  strange.  She  was  in- 
deed a  child  to  her  "  little  cousin"  now.  Alas  ! 
she  knew  not  that  Katharine  would  have  given 
worlds  to  have  taken  the  fresh,  simple  child's 
heart  into  her  racked  bosom  once  more ! 

"  How  quiet  you  are,  Eleanor !  how  dull  this 
room  seems,  when  we  are  all  below  so  merry — 
so  merry  !"  And  she  laughed  that  mocking 
laugh — an  echo  true  as  the  words. 

"Are  you?  I  am  glad  of  it,"  was  Eleanor's 
simple  reply.  "  But  you  must  forgive  my  stay- 
ing here,  I  am  so  weary." 

"  Weary !  I  thought  you,  happy,  good  country 
damsels,  were  never  weary,  as  we  are." 

"  We  !  Nay,  Katharine,  are  not  you  yourself 
country-bred,  good,  and  happy?" 

Again  there  came  the  musical  laugh — light, 
but  oh !  how  bitter  !  "  For  the  first  adjective,  I 
suppose  I  must  acknowledge  the  crime,  or  mis- 
fortune ;  for  the  second,  you  can  ask  Hugh  ;  for 
the  third — well,  you  may  ask  him,  too — of  course 
he  knows !  But  I  must  go.  Will  you  come 
with  me?  No?  Then  good-by,  fair  coz.'; 

"  Sister!"  was  the  gentle  word  that  met 
Katharine,  as  she  was  departing  with  the  flutter- 
ing gayety  she  had  so  well  learned  to  assume. 
And  Eleanor  came  softly  behind,  and  put  her 
arm  round  the  neck  of  her  brother's  wife. 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  forgot — of  course,  we  are  sisters 
now.     Are  you  glad  of  it,  Eleanor  ?" 
"  Yes,  most  happy !     And  you  ?" 
Katharine  looked  at  her  earnestly,  and  then 
shrank  away.     "  Let  me  go !     I  mean  that  your 
arm — your  bracelet  —  hurts  me,"   she  added, 
hurriedly. 

Eleanor  removed  it.  Katharine  paused  a 
moment,  and  then  stooped  forward  and  kissed 
her  cheek,  saying,  affectionately — 

"  You  are  a  dear,  good  girl,  as  of  old.  You 
will  bear  with  me,  Nelly?  I  am  tired — per- 
haps not  well.  This  gay  life  is  too  much  ibi 
me." 

"  Then  why— " 

"Ah,  be  quiet,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Ogilvie, 
tapping  Eleanor's  shoulder  with  her  perfumed 
fan.  "  You  shall  lecture  me  to-night,  when  I 
have  sent  away  these  people — that  is,  my  guests," 
she  continued,  remembering  who  was  of  the 
number.  And  as  she  went  away,  Katha/ine 
could  almost  have  cut  out  her  own  tongue,  that 
had  carelessly  ranked  Paul  Lynedon  in  the  tribe 
thus  designated.  Though  made  a  slave,  he  was 
an  idol  still. 

For  an  hour  or  two  longer  Eleanor  sat  alone 
by  the  window,  sometimes  trying  to  calm  her 
spirit  with  looking  up  at  the  deep  peace  of  the  * 
moonlight  sky,  and  then  watching  the  carriages 
that  rolled  to  the  door,  bearing  away  guest  after 
guest.  The  last  who  left  departed  on  foot 
Eleanor  distinguished  his  tall  figure  passing 
hastily  through  the  little  shrubbery,  and  fancied 


THE  OG1LVIES. 


i  oft 


it  was  like  Mr.  Lynedon's.  But  she  thought 
little  on  the  subject,  for  immediately  afterward 
her  sister  entered. 

Katharine  stood  at  the  door,  the  silver  lamp 
she  held  casting  a  rich  subdued  light  on  her  face 
and  person.  She  wore  a  pale  amber  robe,  and 
a  gold  net  confined  her  hair.  Save  this,  she  had 
no  ornament  of  any  kind.  She  took  a  pride  in 
showing  that  her  daring  beauty  scorned  all  such 
adjuncts.  Well  she  might,  for  a  more  magnifi- 
cent creature  never  rode  triumphant  over  hu- 
man hearts. 

Even  Eleanor — lifting  up  her  meek,  sorrowful 
gaze — acknowledged  this. 

"  Katharine,  how  beautiful  you  are !  You  see 
my  prophecy  was  right.  Do  you  remember  it, 
that  night  at  Summerwood,  when  the  Lancasters 
and  Mr.  Lynedon  came  ?" 

The  silver  lamp  fell  to  the  floor. 

There  was  a  minute's  silence,  and  then  Kath- 
arine rekindled  the  light,  saying  gayly — 

"  See,  my  dear,  this  comes  of  standing  to  be 
looked  at  and  flattered.  But  I  will  have  your 
praise  still :  now  look  at  me  once  more  !" 

"  Still  beautiful — most  beautiful !  perhaps  the 
more  so  because  of  your  paleness.  It  suits  well 
with  your  black  hair." 

"Does  it?" 

"And  how  simple  your  dress  is!  no  jewels? 
no  flowers?—" 

"I  never  wear  either.  I  hate  your  bits  of 
shining  stone,  precious  only  because  the  world 
chooses  to  make  them,  rare ;  and  as  for  flowers, 
I  trod  down  my  life's  flowers  long  ago." 

The  indistinct  speech  was  lost  upon  Elea- 
nor's wandering  mind.  She  made  no  answer, 
and  the.  two  sisters-in-law  sat  for  some  minutes 
without  exchanging  a  word.  At  last  Eleanor 
said — 

"  Will  not  Hugh  or  Sir  Robert  come  in  and 
speak  to  us  before  we  all  go  to  rest?" 

"  Sir  Robert  ?  Oh,  he  retired  an  hour  ago  ; 
he  keeps  Summerwood  time.  As  for  Hugh,  I 
doubt  if  either  wife  or  sister  could  draw  him 
from  his  beloved  cigars  and  punch.  Don't  flat- 
ter yourself  with  any  such  thing ;  I  fear  you 
must  be  content  with  my  society." 

"Indeed  I  am,"  said  Eleanor,  affectionately, 
laying  her  hand  on  Katharine's  arm. 

She  shrank  restlessly  beneath  the  touch ;  but 
the  moment  after,  she  leaned  her  head  on  her 
sister's  shoulder;  and  though  she  was  quite 
silent,  neither  moved  nor  sobbed,  Eleanor  felt  on 
her  neck  the  drop  of  one  heavy,  burning  tear. 

"My  own  sister!  my  dear  Katharine!  are 
you  ill — unhappy  ?" 

"  No,  no ;  quite  well— quite  happy.  Did  I  not 
say  so  ?  I  think  few  mistresses  of  such  a  gay 
revel  as  ours,  could  retire  from  it  with  so  fresh 
and  blithe  a  face  as  mine  was  when  you  saw  it  at 
the  door.  Still,  I  own  to  being  rather  tired  now." 

"  Will  you  go  to  rest  ?" 

"  No,  not  just  yet.  Come,  Eleanor,  shall  we 
sit  and  talk  for  half  an  hour,  as  we  used  to  do  ? 
Only  first  I  will  shut  out  the  moonlight,  it  looks 
so  pale,  and  cold,  and  melancholy.  Why,  Nelly, 
when  you  stood  in  it  I  could  almost  have  thought 
you  a  ghost — the  ghost  of  that  old  time  !  What 
nonsense  I  am  saying  !" 

She  rose  up  quickly,  drew  the  curtains,  and 
the  chamber  remained  lit  only  by  a  taper  at  the 
further  ond. 


"I  can  not  endure  this  darkness.  1  wilt  call 
for  lights.  But  no,  it  is  better  as  it  is.  Did  yon 
ever  know  such  a  fitful  creature?"  continued 
she,  throwing  herself  on  the  ground  at  Eleanor's 
feet.  "  But  I  am  quiet  now  for  a  little ;  so  be 
gin.  What  are  you  thinking  about  ?" 

"Of  how  strangely  things  change  in  Jife 
Who  would  have  thought  that  the  little  Kath 
arine  I  used  to  play  with,  and  lecture,  and  won- 
der at — for  I  did  wonder  at  you  sometimes — 
would  have  grown  into  this  Katharine?" 

"Ay,  who  would  have  thought  it?" 

"  And  still  more,  that  she  should  be  Hugh's 
wife — my  sister ;  and  I  never  guessed  that  you 
loved  one  another!  Indeed,  I  thought — " 

"What  did  you  think?  tell  me,"  said  Kath 
arine,  suddenly. 

"  That  our  young  dreamer  would  have  chosen 
-•-not  dear,  quiet,  gentle  Hugh,  but  some  hero 
of  romance." 

"  Ha,  ha !  you  were  mistaken  then." 

"  Yes,  truly  !  Yet  she  was  a  little  dreamer, 
was  the  dear  Katharine  of  Summerwood !  How 
well  I  remember  the  night  we  sat  together,  as 
we  do  now,  talking  of  many  things — of  Mr. 
Lynedon  especially.  Oh,  Katharine,  we  are 
both  changed  since  then !"  said  Eleanor,  sadly, 
as  her  memory  flew  back,  and  her  own  sorrows 
once  more  sank  heavy  on  that  gentle  heart,  so 
ready  to  forget  itself  in  and  for  others. 

Katharine  lay  quite  silent,  and  without  mov- 
ing— only  once  she  shivered  convulsively. 

"  How  cold  you  are — your  hands,  your  neck  \ 
Let  me  wrap  you  in  this  shawl,"  Eleanor  said. 
"  And,  indeed,  I  will  not  keep  you  talking  any 
longer.  Be  good,  dear,  and  go  to  rest!" 

"Rest!  Oh,  God!  that  I  could  rest — for- 
ever!" was  the  smothered  moan  that  broke 
from  Katharine's  lips. 

"What  were  you  saying,  love?" 

"  Only  that  I  will  do  any  thing  you  like, 
Eleanor.  But  I  am  forgetting  all  my  duties- 
Come,  I  will  see  you  to  your  room." 

"  She  rose  up,  and  the  two  sisters  passed 
thither — tenderly,  too,  with  linked  arms. 

"Now,  dearest  Katharine,  you  will  promise 
me  to  go  to  bed  and  sleep  ?" 

"Yes,  yes;  only  let  me  breathe  first."  She 
threw  open  the  window,  and  drank  in,  almost 
with  a  'gasp,  the  cool  night  air  of  summer 
Eleanor  came  beside  her — and  so  they  stood, 
God's  peaceful  heaven  shining  on  both,  with  its 
moonlight  and  its  stars.  Then  Katharine  drew 
her  sister's  face  between  her  two  hands,  and  said — 

"  There,  now  you  look  as  when  I  saw  you  at 
the  window  to-night — pale,  pure,  like  a  warning 
spirit,  or  an  angel.  I  think  you  are  both !  And 
I — Eleanor,  remember,  in  all  times,  under  all 
chance  or  change,  that  I  did  love  you — I  shall 
love  you — always." 

The  smile,  that  unearthly,  almost  awful  smile, 
passed  from  her  face,  showing  what  was  left 
when  the  fitful  gleam  had  vanished — a  counte- 
nance of  utter  despair !  But  it  was  turned  from 
Eleanor — she  never  saw  it.  Had  she  done  so, 
perhaps —  But  no,  it  was  too  late  ! 

"I  Believe  you  love  me,  dearest,  as  I  you," 
she  answered,  tenderly;  "we  are  sisters  now 
and  forever. — Good-night!" 

They  kissed  each  other  once  more,  and  then 
Katharine  turned  away — bul  on  the  threshold 
her  foot  staid 


no 


THE  OGILV1ES. 


"Eleanor!" 

Sleanor  sprang  toward  her. 

«  You  say  your  prayers  every  mght,  as  chil- 
dren do— as  we  did  together  once,  when  I  was 
a  little  child ?  Well,  say  for  me  to-night,  as 
then,  '  God  bless — '  no,  no — '  God  take  care  of 
Katharine !' " 

Ere  she  glided  away,  she  lifted  her  eyes  up- 
ward foi  a  moment,  and  then  closed  them,  droop- 
•*~g  her  head.  Eleanor  never  again  saw  on  her 
lace  that  quiet,  solemn  look — never — until — 


CHAPTER   XLIV. 

We  women  have  four  seasons,  like  the  year. 
Our  Spring  is  in  our  lightsome,  girlish  days, 
When  the  heart  laughs  within  us  for  sheer  joy 
Summer  is  when  we  love  and  are  beloved. 
Autumn,  when  some  young  thing  with  tiny  hands 
Is  wantoning  about  us,  day  and  night ; 
And  winter  is  when  those  we  love  have  perished. 
Some  miss  one  season — some  another  ;  this 
Shall  have  them  early,  and  that  late :  and  yet 
The  year  wears  round  with  all  as  best  it  may. 

PHILIP  BAILEY. 

HUGH  and  his  sister  breakfasted  alone  together. 
Sir  Robert  had  gone  through  that  necessary  cer- 
emony an  hour  before,  and  retired  to  his  legis- 
lative duties.  Poor  man !  he  spent  as  much  time 
in  trying  to  bind  up  the  wounds  of  the^nation,  as 
though  the  sole  doctor  and  nurse  of  tfiat  contin- 
ually-ailing patient  had  been  Sir  Robert  Ogilvie, 
Bart.,  M  P.,  of  Summerwood  Park. 

"You  needn't  look  for  Katharine,"  said  the 
husband,  half  sulkily,  half  sadly;  "she  never 
comes  down  till  after  eleven.  Nobody  ever 
does  in  London,  I  suppose — at  least  nobody 
fashionable.  Sit  down,  Eleanor,  and  let  me  for 
once  be  saved  the  trouble  of  pouring  out  my 
own  coffee." 

So  tho  brother  and  sister  began  their  tete-a- 
tete.  It  was  rather  an  uninteresting  one,  for 
Hugh,  after  another  word  or  two,  buried  him- 
self in  the  mysteries  of  BelVs  Life,  from  which 
he  was  not  exhumed  until  the  groom  sent  word 
that  Brown  Bess  was  waiting. 

"  Good-by.  Nell.  You'll  stay  till  to-morrow, 
of  course?  Uncle  won't  go  back  to  Summer- 
wood  before  then."  And  he  was  off,  as  he 
himself  would  characteristically  have  expressed 
it,  "  like  a  shot." 

Ties  of  blood  do  not  necessarily  constitute 
ties  of  affection.  The  world — ay,  even  the  best 
and  truest  part  of  it — is  a  little  mistaken  on  this 
.point.  The  parental  or  fraternal  bond  is  at  first 
a  mere  instinct,  or,  viewed  in  its  highest  light, 
a  link  of  duty ;  but  when,  added  to  this,  comes 
the  tender  friendship,  the  deep  devotion,  which 
springs  from  sympathy  and  esteem,  then  the 
love  is  made  perfect,  and  the  kindred  of  blood 
becomes  a  yet  stronger  kindred  of  heart.  But  j 
unless  circumstances,  or  the  nature  and  charac- 
ter of  the  parties  themselves,  allow  opportunity  j 
for  this  union,  parent  and  child,  brother  and  sis- 
ter, are  as  much  strangers  as  though  no  bond 
of  relationship  existed  between  tnem. 

Thus  it  was  with  Eleanor  and  Hugh.  They 
regarded  one  another  warmly;  would  have 
gladly  fulfilled  any  duty  of  affection  or  self- 
sacrifice— at  least,  she  would;  but  they  had 
lived  apart  nearly  all  their  lives:  Hugh 

tUrf'll      fta      Viio      iin»ln'»      U_:_         TM ^.L- 


turecl  as  his  uncle's  heir — Eleanor,  the  com- 


panion of  her  widowed  mother,  on  whose  com- 
paratively lowly  condition  the  rest  of  the 
Ogilvie  family  somewhat  looked  down.  In  char, 
acter  and  disposition,  there  was  scarcely  a  single 
meeting  link  of  sympathy  between  them ;  and 
though  they  had  always  loved  one  another  with 
a  kind  of  instinctive  affection,  yet  it  had  never 
grown  into  that  intense  devotion  which  makes 
the  tie  between  brother  and  sister  the  sweetest 
and  dearest  of  all  earthly  bonds,  second  only  to 
the  one  which  Heaven  alone  makes— ^perfect, 
heart-united  marriage. 

Eleanor  sat  awhile,  thinking  with  a  vague 
doubt  that  this  was  not  the  marriage  between 
her  brother  and  her  cousin.  But  she  was  too 
little  acquainted  with  the  inner  character  of 
either,  for  her  doubts  to  amount  to  fear.  They 
quickly  vanished  when  Hugh's  wife  came  in,  so 
smiling,  so  full  of  playful  grace,  that  Eleanor 
could  hardly  believe  it  was  the  same  Katharine 
whose  parting  look  the  previous  night  had  pain- 
fully haunted  her,  even  amidst  her  own  still 
more  sorrowful  remembrances. 

"What!  your  brother  gone,  Nelly?  Why, 
then,  I  shall  have  you  all  to  myself  this  morn- 
ing," said  Mrs.  Ogilvie.  "So  come,  bring  your 
work — since  you  are  so  countrified  as  to  have 
work — and  let  us  indulge  in  a  chat  before  any 
one  comes." 

"  Have  you  so  many  visitors,  then  ?" 

"  Oh,  the  Lancasters  might  call,  after  last 
night,  you  know;  or  Mr.  Lynedon"  (she  said 
the  name  with  a  resolute  carelessness) ;  "or 
even — though  it  is  scarce  likely — your  old  friend 
and  my  new  one,  Mr.  Philip  Wychnor." 

There  was  no  answer.  Katharine  amused 
herself  with  walking  to  the  window,  and  teas- 
ing an  ugly  pet  pa./ rot.  Poor  exchange  for  the 
merry  little  lark  that,  happy  in  its  love-tended 
captivity,  sang  to  the  girl  Katharine  at  Sum- 
merwood !  Eleanor,  glad  of  any  thing  to  break 
the  silence,  inquired  after  the  old  favorite. 

"Dead !"  was  the  short,  sharp  answer.  Th« 
word  and  its  tone  might  have  revealed  a  whole 
life's  mystery. 

"But  Eleanor,"  she  added,  in  a  jesting  man- 
ner, "you  always  talk  of  the  past — generally  a 
tiresome  subject.  Let  us  turn  to  something 
more  interesting.  For  instance,  I  want  to  hear 
all  you  know  about  that  nice,  good,  gentle 
creature,  Philip  Wychnor.  No  wonder  you 
liked  him :  I  do  already.  How  long  have  you 
known  one  another?" 

"Nearly  all  our  lives." 

This  truth — Eleanor  could  not,  would  not, 
speak  aught  but  the  truth — was  murmured  with 
a  drooping  and  crimsoning  cheek.  She  revealed 
nothing,  but  she  waa  unable  to  feign  :  she  never 
tried. 

"  Eleanor !"  said  Katharine,  catching  her 
hands,  and  looking  earnestly  in  her  face,  "  Sis- 
ter !  tell  me—" 

She  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  a 
servant,  announcing  Mr.  Lynedon. 

"Let  me  creep  awayj  I  am  too  weary  to 
talk,"  whispered  Eleanor. 

"No,  stay!"  The  gesture  was  imperative, 
almost  fierce ;  but  in  a  moment  it  was  softened, 
and  Mrs.  Ogilvie  received  her  guest  as  Mrs. 
Ogilvie  ever  did.  In  her  easy,  dignified  mien 
lingered  not  a  trace  of  Katharine. 

They  talked  for  a  while  the  passing  nothings 


THE  OGILVIES. 


Ill 


incident  on  morning  visits,  and  then  Mrs.  Ogil- 
rie  noticed  her  sister's  pale  face. 

"How  weary  she  is,  poor  Nelly!" — and  the 
touch  of  sympathy  which  prompted  the  words 
was  sincere  and  self-forgetful — "  Go,  love,  and 
rest  there  in  my  favorite  chair,  and — stay,  take 
this  book,  also  a  favorite:  you  will  like  it,  I 
know." 

It  was  a  new  volume,  and  bore  Philip  Wych- 
nor's  name  on  the  title-page.  There,  sitting  in 
the  recess,  Eleanor  read  her  lover's  soul.  It 
was  his  soul ;  for  a  great  and  true  author,  in  a!1 
he  writes,  will  still  reflect  the  truth  that  is 
within  him — not  as  the  world  seeth,  but  as 
Heaven  seeth !  Man,  passing  by  on  the  broad 
wayside,  beholds  only  the  battered  leaves  of  the 
unsightly,  perhaps  broken  flower;  but  God's 
sun,  shining  into  its  heart,  finds  beauty,  and 
draws  thence  perfume,  so  that  earth  is  made 
to  rejoice  in  what  is  poured  out  unto  heaven 
alone. 

It  is  a  merciful  thing,  that  when  fate  seals  up 
the  full  bursting  tide  of  human  hopes  and  human 
yearnings  in  a  great  man's  soul,  the  current, 
frozen  for  a  time,  at  length  flows  back  again  to 
enrich  and  glorify,  not  his  poor  earthly  being, 
but  that  which  will  endure  forever — his  true 
self — his  genius.  And  so  his  work,  whatever  it 
be,  stands  to  him  in  the  place  of  all  that  in  life 
is  lost,  or  never  realized ;  becomes  to  him  love  ' 
— hope — joy — home — wife — child — every  thing. 

Something  of  this  Philip  Wychnor  had  already 
felt.  His  work  was  his  soul,  poured  out,  not 
for  the  petty  present  circle  of  individual  praise, 
that  Mr.  This  might  flatter,  and  Mrs.  That 
might  weep  over  his  page,  but  for  the  great 
wide  world,  wherein  the  true  author  longs  to 
dwell — the  hearts  of  kindred  sympathy,  throb- 
bing every  where  and  in  all  time.  He  wrote 
that  he  might,  in  the  only  way  he  could,  make 
his  life  an  offering  to  Heaven,  and  to  the  mem- 
ory of  that  love  which  was  to  him  next  heaven. 
He  wrote,  too,  that,  going  down  to  the  grave 
lonely  and  childless,  as  he  deemed  it  would  be, 
ne  might  thus  leave  behind  him  a  portion  of  his 
soul — that  soul  which  through  life  had  kept 
pure  its  triune  faith  in  his  God,  his  genius,  and 
her! 

And  so,  looking  on  his  writings,  the  woman 
he  loved  read  his  heart.  She  discerned  too — as 
none  but  she  could — his  long  patience,  his  strug- 
gles, his  enduring  love.  All  was  dim,  even  to 
her,  still  groping  blindly  in  a  mesh  of  circum- 
stances. But  thus  far  she  read — the  unchanged 
purity  of  his  noble  nature— his  truth,  his  faith- 
fulness, and  his  love — love  for  her,  and  her 
alone  !  She  knew  it,  she  felt  it,  now. 

A  deep  peace  fell  upon  her  spirit.  She  read 
over  and  over  again  many  a  line — to  the  world, 
nothing — to  her,  sweet  as  Philip's  own  dear 
voice,  hopeful  as  the  love  which  answered  his. 
Alas  that  he  knew  it  not !  She  closed  the  book, 
laid  it  in  her  bosom,  and  leaned  back  with  a 
peaceful,  solemn  joy.  As  she  did  so,  there  came 
to  her  heart  a  strong  faith — a  blessed  forewarn- 
ing— such  as  Heaven  sometimes  sends  amidst 
all-conflicting  destinies,  that  one  day  Philip 
would  be  her  husband,  and  she  his  wife — never 
to  be  sundered  more !  Never — until  the  simple 
girl  and  boy,  who  once  looked  out  together 
dreamily  into  life's  future,  should  stand,  still 
together,  on  its  verge,  looking  back  on  the  earthly  j 


journey  traversed  hand-in-hand ;  and  forward, 
unto  the  opening  gates  of  heaven. 

Absorbed  in  these  thoughts,  she  had  almost 
forgotten  the  presence  of  Katharine  and  Lyne- 
don,  until  the  former  stood  behind  her  chair. 

"What,  Nelly,  in  a  reverie?  I  thought 
dreaming  invariably  ended  with  one's  teens.  Is 
it  not  so,  Mr.  Lynedon?"  And  she  turned  to 
Paul,  who  was  standing  a  little  aloof,  turning 
over  books  and  newspapers  in  an  absent,  half- 
vexed  manner.  But  he  was  beside  Katharine 
in  a  moment,  nevertheless. 

"You  were  speaking  to  me  ?" 

"  Yes ;  but  my  question  was  hardly  worth  sum- 
moning you  from  those  interesting  newspapers, 
in  which  a  future  statesman,  must  take  such  de- 
light," said  Katharine,  with  an  air  of  careless 
badinage,  which  sat  on  her,  like  all  her  various 
moods,  ever  gracefully.  "  I  really  should  apol- 
ogize for  having  entertained  you  for  the  last 
quarter  of  an  hour  with  that  operatic  discussion 
concerning  my  poor  ill-used  favorite,  Giuseppe 
Verdi.  Do  I  linger  properly  on  those  musical 
Italian  syllables  ?  Answer,  you  Signer  fresh 
from  the  sweet  South." 

"  Every  thing  you  do 
Still  betters  what  is  done." 

was  Lynedon's  reply ;  too  earnest  to  be  mere 
compliment. 

But  Mrs.  Ogilvie  mocked  alike  at  both — or 
seemed  to  mock,  for  her  eye  glittered  even  as 
she  spoke.  "  Come,  Eleanor,  answer !  Here  is 
Mr.  Lynedon  quoting  Shakespeare,  of  course  for 
you ;  since,  if  I  remember  right,  your  acquaint- 
ance began  over  that  very  excellent  but  yet 
somewhat  overlauded  individual." 

"You  remember!"  said  Paul,  eagerly,  and  in 
a  low  tone ;  "  Do  you  indeed  remember,  all  that 
time?" 

Katharine's  lips  were  set  together,  and  her 
head  turned  aside.  But  immediately  she  looked 
upon  him  coldly— carelessly — too  carelessly  to 
be  even  proud.  " '  All'  is  a  comprehensive 
word  ;  I  really  can  not  engage  to  lay  so  heavy  a 
tax  on  my  memory,  which  was  never  very  good 
— was  it  Eleanor?" 

Eleanor  smiled  quietly.  "  I  have  naught  tc 
say  against  it,  since  it  has  been  so  true  to  me,  a* 
least."  And  then  making  an  effort,  she  began 
to  talk  to  Mr.  Lynedon  about  the  old  times  and 
Summer  wood,  until  the  arrival  of  another  visitor. 

Mrs.  Frederick  Pennythorne  glided  into  the 
room  in  all  the  grace  of  mourning  attire,  the 
most  interesting  and  least  wo-begone  possible. 
Never  did  crape  bonnet  sit  more  tastefully  and 
airily,  and  certainly  never  did  it  shade  a  blither 
smile.  It  quite  removed  the  doubt  which  had 
startled  Eleanor  at  first  seeing  the  unexpected 
sables.  The  cousins  met,  as  cousins  do  who 
have  proved  all  their  life  the  falsity  of  the  saying 
that  "bluid  is  thicker  than  water."  But  the 
affectionate  clanship  which  originated  the  prov- 
erb is  rarely  known  across  the  Tweed. 

"  Well,  Miss  Ogilvie  (I  suppose  the  '  Eleanor' 
time  is  past  now),"  said  Mrs.  Frederick,  in  a 
dignified  parenthesis,  "  here  we  are,  you  see,  all 
married — I  beg  your  pardon — except  yourself. 
What  a  pity  that  you  should  be  left  the  last  bird 
on  the  bushl" 

"If  you  attach  such  discredit  to  the  circum- 
stance, I  think  I  may  venture  to  say  for  Eleanor 
that  it  is  her  own  fault,"  said  Katharine,  in  the 


112 


THE  OGILVIES. 


peculiar  tone  with  which  she  always  suppressed 
her  cousin's  i!.-natured  speeches.  The  chance 
words  brought  the  color  to  Eleanor's  cheek,  and 
made  Paul  Lynedon  fidget  on  his  chair.  For 
the  twentieth  time  he  said  to  himself,  "What  a 
fool  I  was  ! ' ' 

"  Oh,  no  doubt — no  doubt,"  observed  Isabella, 
making  an  unconscious  answer  to  both  thought 
and  word.  "  I  dare  say  she  finds  it  pleasant  and 
convenient  to  be  an  old  maid  ;  she  certainly 
looks  very  well,  and  tolerably  happy,  consider- 
ing. And  now,  Miss  Eleanor,  since  I  have 
complimented  you — what  have  you  to  say  of 
me  ?  Do  I  look  much  older,  eh?" 

•'  People  dp  not  usually  grow  aged  in  four  or 
five  years,"  said  Eleanor,  hardly  able  to  repress 
a  smile. 

"  Oh,  dear,  no !  Aged  ! — how  could  you  use 
the  odious  word !  But  still,  I  thought  I  might 
seem  altered,  especially  in  this  disagreeable 
mourning." 

"I  was  afraid — "  began  Eleanor,  looking 
rather  grave. 

"  Nay,  you  need  not  pull  a  long  face  on  the 
matter.  It's  nothing ;  only  for  my  brother-in-law 
— Leigh  Penny thorne." 

"Leigh!  Is  poor  Leigh  dead?"  cried  Eleanor : 
and,  with  the  quick  sympathy  of  love  which  ex- 
tends to  all  near  or  dear  to  the  beloved,  she  felt 
a  regret,  as  though  she  had  known  the  boy. 

"Oh,  he  died  two  months  since — a  great 
blessing  too,  of  course,  because  he  suffered  so 
much,  poor  fellow,"  added  Mrs.  Frederick, 
catching  from  the  surprised  faces  of  her  two 
cousins  a  hint  as  to  the  outward  proprieties. 

"  I  was  not  aware,  Eleanor,  that  you  knew 
this  poor  boy,  in  whom  I  too  have  been  interest- 
ed," said  Katharine. 

"I  have  heard  of  him." 

Mrs.  Ogilvie  glanced  at  her  sister's  drooping 
countenance — half  earnestly,  half  sadly,  and  said 
no  more. 

"Interested!"  continued  Isabella,  catching 
up  the  word ;  "  I  can't  imagine,  and  never 
could,  what  there  was  interesting  in  Leigh;  and 
yet  every  body  made  such  a  fuss  over  him, 
especially  that  Mr.  Wychnor.  You  know  him, 
Katharine  ? — a  quiet,  stupid  sort  of  young  man." 

"  You  are  courteous,  Isabella,  to  a  gentleman 
who  happened  to  be  my  friend,  and  also  that  of 
Mr.  Lynedon  there,"  was  Mrs.  Ogilvie's  inter- 
ruption. Her  cousin  bent  with  mortified  apology 
to  the  "very  distingue-]ooking"  personage  who 
stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  window ;  and,  in  an 
eager  effort  to  follow  up  the  introduction  by 
conversation,  Mrs.  Frederick's  vapid  ideas  were 
soon  turned  from  their  original  course. 

She  succeeded  in  getting  through,  as  hundreds 
of  her  character  do,  another  of  the  hours  which 
make  up  a  whole  precious  existence.  But  it  is 
perhaps  consolatory  to  think  that  those  by  whom 
a  life  is  thus  wasted,  are  at  all  events  squander- 
ing a  capital  which  is  of  no  use  to  any  one — not 
even  to  the  owner.  There  are  people  in  this 
world  who  almost  make  one  question  the  possi- 
bility of  their  attaining  another.  Their  souls  go 
like  the  beasts' — downward;  so  that  even  if 
their  small  spark  of  immortality  can  survive  the 
quenching  of  the  body,  one  doubts  if  they  would 
ever  feel  either  the  torture  of  Purgatory  or  the 
bliss  of  Paradise. 

"Well!"  at  last  said  Mrs.  Frederick:   she 


always  interlarded  her  conversation  with  so 
many  "wells!"  that  her  eccentric  father-in-law 
had  given  her,  according  to  his  usual  habit,  the 
sobriquet  of  Well-come.  "Well,  Katharine,  I 
must  go." 

But  she  seemed  determined  to  outstay  Mr. 
Lynedon ;  so  contented  herself  with  impressing 
on  her  hearers  the  melancholy  warning  of  her 
departure  once  every  five  minutes. 

"  And  besides,  my  dear  Mrs.  Ogilvie" — Isa- 
bella sometimes  bestowed  the  Mrs.,  which  she 
was  most  punctilious  in  exacting;  "I  wanted 
you  to  help  me  through  a  dull  visit  on  my  mother- 
in-law.  But  of  course  you  can't  come  ;  only  if, 
as  Fred — the  ill-natured  creature — has  taken  the 
carriage  to  Hampton — " 

"  I  will  order  mine,"  said  Katharine,  with  the 
faintest  possible  smile.  "I  am  engaged;  but, 
Eleanor,  a  drive  would  do  you  good.  Will  you 
take  my  place,  and  visit  poor  Mrs.  Penny- 
thorne?  It  was  a  sudden  and  kindly  thought, 
which  found  its  grateful  echo  in  the  thrill  of 
Eleanor's  heart. 

Alas,  that  through  life  those  two  had  not 
known  each  other  better,  that  they  might  have 
loved  and  sustained  each  other  more ! 

Paul  still  lingered,  trespassing  on  the  utmost 
limits  of  etiquette,  to  gain  another  half-hour — 
another  minute — of  the  presence  which  was  al- 
ready growing  more  and  more  attractive — nay, 
beloved !  As  Katharine  bade  adieu  to  her  cousin 
and  Eleanor,  she  turned  to  him :  "  Mr.  Lyne- 
don, may  I,  as  a  friend,  appropriate  your  idle 
morning,  and  ask  you  to  become  knight-errant 
to  these  fair  ladies?" 

He  bowed,  wavering  between  disappointment 
and  pleasure.  The  latter  triumphed  :  that  win 
ning  manner — the  gentle  name  of  "friend"— 
would  have  sent  him  to  the  very  end  of  the  eartl 
for  her  sake,  or  at  her  bidding. 


CHAPTER  XLV 

Know  what  love  is— that  it  draws 
Into  itself  all  passion,  hope,  and  thought; 
The  heart  of  life,  to  which  all  currents  flow 
Through  every  vein  of  being— which  if  chilled, 
The  streams  are  ice  forever ! 

WESTLAND  MARSTON. 

MRS.  FREDERICK  PENNYTHORNE,  in  high  good 
humor  and  good  spirits,  played  off  every  femi- 
nine air  of  which  she  was  mistress,  for  the  espe- 
cial benefit  of  Mr.  Lynedon.  She  was  one  of 
those  women  to  whom  nothing  ever  comes  amiss 
that  comes  in  a  coat  and  hat.  The  passive  re- 
cipient of  these  attentions  received  them  at  first 
coldly,  and  afterward  with  some  amusement,  for, 
despite  his  dawning  passion,  Lynedon  could  not 
already  deny  his  nature.  He  was  but  a  man — 
a  man  of  the  world — and  she  a  pretty  woman ; 
so  he  looked  smiling  and  pleased — ready  to 
snatch  an  hour's  idle  amusement,  which  would 
be  utterly  forgotten  the  next. 

Oh,  Love !  mocked  at  and  trifled  with  when 
thou  wouldst  come  as  an  angel  of  blessing,  how 
often  dost  thou  visit  at  last — an  avenging  angel 
of  doom ! 

Leaning  back  silent  and  quiet,  Eleanor  felt 
oppressed  by  an  almost  trembling  eagerness. 
To  tread  where  Philip's  weary  feet  had  so  often 
trod ;  to  enter  the  house  of  which  his  letters  haa 


THE  OGILVIES 


113 


frequently  spoken:  to  see  the  gentle  and  now 
desolate  woman  whom  he  had  liked,  and  who 
had  been  kind  to  him  in  those  sorrowful  days — 
these  were  indeed  sweet  though  stolen  pleasures 
unto  his  betrothed.  For  she  was  his  betrothed 
still — her  heart  told  her  so  :  a  passing  estrange- 
ment could  never  break  the  faithful  bond  of 
years. 

Love  makes  the  most  ordinary  things  appear 
sacred.  Simple  Eleanor !  to  her  the  dull  road 
and  the  glaring,  formal  square  were  interesting, 
even  beautiful.  She  looked  up  at  the  house 
itself  with  loving,  wistful  eyes,  as  though  the 
shadow  of  Philip's  presence  were  still  reflected 
there.  She  crossed  the  threshold  where  he  had 
passed  so  many  a  time — the  very  track  of  his 
footsteps  seemed  hallowed  in  her  sight.  Oh, 
woman  !  woman !  whom  idle  poets  celebrate  as 
a  capricious  goddess,  how  often  art  thou  the 
veriest  of  idolaters ! 

Lynedon  remained  in  the  carriage.  He  never 
liked  visits  of  condplence,  or  interviews  at  all 
approaching  to  the  doleful ;  so  he  made  a  show 
of  consideration  for  "poor  Mrs.  Pennythorne's 
feelings,"  and  enacted  the  sympathizing  and 
anxious  friend  by  means  of  a  couple  of  cards. 

There  is  a  deep  solemnity  on  entering  a  house 
over  which  the  shadow  of  a  great  woe  still  lin- 
gers, where  pale  Patience  sits  smiling  by  the 
darkened  hearth,  giving  all  due  welcome  to  the 
stranger,  yet  not  so  but  that  the  welcomed  one 
can  feel  this  to  be  a  mere  passing  interest.  No 
tear  may  dim  the  eye,  the  lips  may  not  once 
utter  the  name — now  only  a  name — but  the  vis- 
itant knows  that  the  thoughts  are  far  away,  far 
as  heaven  is  from  earth ;  and  he  pictures  almost 
Vith  awe  what  must  be  the  depth  of  the  grief 
that  is  not  seen. 

Eleanor  and  her  cousin  passed  into  the  draw- 
ing-room. It  had  a  heavy,  damp  atmosphere, 
like  that  of  a  room  long  closed  up. 

"  How  disagreeable  !  They  never  sit  in  this 
room  now,  because  of  that  likeness  over  the 
mantle-piece.  Why  couldn't  they  have  it  re- 
moved, instead  of  shutting  up  the  only  tolerable 
room  in  the  house?"  said  Isabella,  as  she  drew 
up  the  Venetian  blind,  and  partly  illumined  the 
gloomy  apartment. 

"Is  that  poor  Leigh?"  asked  Eleanor.  It 
was  a  portrait — a  common-place,  bright-colored 
daub,  but  still  a  portrait — of  a  little  child  sitting 
on  the  ground,  his  arms  full  of  flowers.  "  Was 
itltkehim?" 

"Not  a  bit;  but  'tis  all  that  is  left  of  the 
boy." 

All  left !  the  sole  memento  of  that  brief  young 
life !  Eleanor  gazed  upon  it  with  interest — 
even  with  tears.  She  was  standing  looking  at 
it  still  when  the  mother  entered. 

Eleanor  turned  and  met  the  meek  brown  eyes 
— once  fondly  chronicled  as  being  like  her  own ; 
but  all  memory  of  herself  or  of  Philip  passed 
away  when  she  beheld  Mrs.  Pennythorne.  What 
was  earthly  love,  even  in  its  most  sacred  form, 
to  that  hallowed  grief,  patient  but  perpetual, 
which  to  the  mourner  became  as  a  staff  to  lean 
on  through  the  narrow  valley  whose  sole  ending 
must  be  the  tomb  ? 

Even  Isabella's  careless  tone  sank  subdued 
before  that  soundless  footfall — that  quiet  voice! 
She  introduced  her  cousin  with  an  awkward 
half-apology 

H 


"I  hope  you  will  not  mind  her  being  a  st: anger, 
but — "  here  a  bright  thought  struck  Isabella — 
"she  knows  your  great  favorite,  Mr.  Wychnor." 

A  smile— or  at  least  its  shadow — all  that 
those  patient  lips  would  ever  wear  on  earth — 
showed  how  the  mother's  gratitude  had  become 
affection.  Mrs.  Pennythorne  took  Eleanor's 
hand  affectionately. 

"I  don't  know  if  I  have  ever  heard  of  you, 
but  indeed  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  for  Mr. 
Wychnor 's  sake." 

It  was  the  dearest  welcome  in  the  world  to 
Eleanor  Ogilvie  ! 

Have  you  seen  him  to-day?"  pursued  Mrs. 
Pennythorne,  simply ;  "  but  indeed  you  could 
not,  for  he  has  been  with  me  all  the  morning.  I 
made  him  stay,  because  he  seemed  worn  and  ill." 

"111!"  echoed  Eleanor,  anxiously.  But  her 
word  and  look  passed  unnoticed,  for  Isabella 
was  watching  Lynedon  from  the  window,  ^and 
Mrs.  Pennythorne  answered,  unconsciously— 

"  Yes  :  he  has  not  looked  well  of  late ;  I  have 
been  quite  uneasy  about  him.  I  left  him  lying 
on  the  sofa  in  the  parlor.  Shall  we  go  down 
there  now?  he  will  be  so  dull  alone." 

She  led  the  way ;  Isabella  reluctantly  quit 
ting  her  post  of  observation. 

"  Always  Mr.  Wychnor !  What  a  bore  that 
young  man  is !"  she  observed  to  her  cousin.  But 
Eleanor  heard  nothing — thought  of  nothing — 
save  that  Philip  was  near — Philip  ill — sad  ! 

So  ill,  so  sad,  that  he  scarce  moved  at  the 
opening  door ;  but  lay  with  eyes  closed  heavily, 
as  though  the  light  itself  were  pain — and  lips 
pressed  together,  lest  their  writhings  should  be- 
tray, even  in  solitude,  what  the  firm  will  had 
resolved  to  conquer,  forbidding  even  the  relief 
of  sorrow. 

For  one  brief  instant  she  beheld  him  thus  • 
she,  his  betrothed,  who  would  have  given  her 
life  for  his  sake.  Her  heart  yearned  over  him, 
almost  as  a  mother's  over  a  child.  She  could 
have  knelt  beside  him  and  taken  the  weary, 
drooping  head  to  her  bosom,  comforting  and 
cherishing  as  a  woman  only  can :  but — 

He  saw  her !  there  came  a  momentary  spasm 
over  his  face,  and  then,  starting  up,  he  met  her 
with  a  cold  eye,  as  he  had  done  the  night  be- 
fore. 

It  caused  her  heart,  that  heart  overflowing 
with  tenderness  and  love,  to  freeze  within  her 
She  shrank  back,  and  had  hardly  strength  tc 
give  him  the  listless  hand  of  outward  courtesy. 
He  took  it  as  courtesy ;  nothing  more.  And 
thus  they  met,  the  second  time,  as  strangers, 
worse  than  strangers — they  who  had  been  each 
other's  very  life  for  so  many  years !  He  began 
to  talk — not  with  her,  save  the  few  words  that 
formality  exacted — but  with  Mrs.  Pennythorne. 
A  few  frigid  nothings  passed  constrainedly,  and 
then  Isabella  cried  out — 

"  Goodness,  Eleanor,  how  pale  you  are  !" 

Eleanor  was  conscious  of  Philip's  sudden 
glance — full  of  anxiety,  wild  tenderness,  any 
thing  but  coldness.  He  half  sprang  to  her  side, 
and  then  paused.  Mrs.  Pennythorne  observed 
that  the  room  was  close,  and  perhaps  Mr. 
Wychnor  would  open  the  window. 

He  did  so,  and  saw  Paul  Lynedon  ! 

Once  more  his  eye  became  cold — meaning 
less — stern.  It  sought  Eleanor's  no  more.  He 
sat  down  beside  Mrs,  Frederick,  answering 


J14 


THE  OGILVIES. 


vaguely  her  light  chatter.  Five  minutes  after, 
he  made  some  idle  excuse,  and  left  the  house. 

"  What  a  pity,  when  he  had  promised  to  stay 
until  dinner-time!"  said  Mrs.  Pennythorne, 
regretfully. 

He  had  gone,  then,  to  escape  her  !  Eleanor 
saw  it — knew  it.  Colder  and  colder  her  heart 
grew,  until  it  felt  like  stone.  She  neither 
trembled  nor  wept;  she  only  wished  that  she 
couW  lie  down  and  die.  Thus,  silent  as  she 
came — but  oh  !  with  what  a  different  silence — 
she  departed  from  the  house.  > 

To  those  who  suffer,  there  is  no  life  more  bit- 
ter, more  full  of  continual  outward  mockery, 
than  that  of  an  author  immersed  in  the  literary 
life  of  London.  In  a  duller  sphere  a  man  may 
hide  his  misery  in  his  chamber — may  fly  with 
it  to  some  blessed  country  solitude — even  wrap 
it  round  him  like  a  mantle  of  pride  or  stupidity, 
and. pass  unnoticed  in  the  common  crowd.  But 
here  it  is  impossible.  He  must  fill  his  place  in 
his  circle — perhaps  a  brilliant  one ;  and  if  so  he 
must  shine  too,  as  much  as  ever.  He  must 
keep  in  the  society  which  is  so  necessary  to  his 
worldly  prospects — he  must  be  seen  in  those 
haunts  which  are  to  others  amusement,  to  him 
business — in  theater,  exhibition,  or  social  meet- 
ing ;  so  at  last  he  learns  to  do  as  others  do — to 
act.  It  is  merely  creating  a  new  self,  as  he  does 
a  new  character ;  and  perhaps  in  time  this  ficti- 
tious self  becomes  so  habitual,  that  never,  save 
in  those  works  which  the  world  calls  fiction,  but 
which  are  indeed  his  only  true  life,  does  the 
real  man  shine  out. 

Philip  Wychnor  had  not  gone  so  far  as  this  on 
the  track  of  simulation ;  day  and  night  he  pray- 
ed that  it  never  might  be  so  with  him.  The 
world  had  not  cast  upon  him  her  many-colored 
fool's  vesture,  but  she  had  taught  him  so  to 
wear  his  own  robe  that  no  eye  could  penetrate 
the  workings  of  the  heart  within.  He  had  his 
outward  life  to  lead,  and  he  led  it — without  de- 
ceit, but  without  betrayal  of  aught  that  was 
within. 

So  it  chanced  that  the  self-same  night,  when 
Eleanor,  yielding  to  Katharine's  restless  eager- 
ness for  any  thing  that  might  smooth  time's 
passing  and  deaden  thought,  went  with  her  to 
some  place  of  amusement — a  "  Shakspeare  read- 
ing,"— the  first  face  she  saw  was  Philip  Wych- 
nor's.  She  saw  it — not  pale,  worn,  dejected,  as 
a  few  hours  since,  but  wearing  the  look  of 
courteous,  almost  pleased  attention,  as  he  listen- 
ed, nay  talked  among  a  group  whose  very  names 
brought  thoughts  of  wit,  and  talent,  and  gayety. 
She  looked  at  him — she,  with  her  anguished, 
half-broken  heart — he  the  center  of  that  brilliant 
circle;  and  then  the  change  burst  upon  her. 
The  Philip  Wychnor  of  the  world  was  not  hers. 
What  was  she  to  him  now  ?  She  turned  away 
her  head,  and  strove  to  endure  patiently,  with- 
out sorrow.  That  he  should  be  great  and 
honored — rich  in  fame — ought  not  that  to  be  hap- 
piness ?  If  he  loved  not  her,  she  might  still 
worship  him.  So  she  pressed  her  anguish 
down  in  the  lowest  depths  of  her  faithful  heart, 
and  tried  to  make  it  rejoice  in  his  glory;  con- 
tent to  be  even  trodden  down  under  his  footsteps, 
so  that  those  footsteps  led  him  unto  the  lofty 
path  whither  he  desired  to  go.  She  watched 
him  from 'afar — his  kindling  eye,  his  beautiful 
Countenance,  on  which  sat  genius  and  truth; 


and  it  seemed  to  her  nothing  that  her  own  pool 
unknown  life,  with  its  hopes  and  joys,  should  b< 
sacrificed,  to  give  unto  the  world  and  unto  fam& 
such  an  one  as  he. 

He  passed  from  the  circle  where  he  stood, 
and  moving  listlessly,  without  looking  around 
him,  came  and  sat  down  beside  Katharine.  At 
her  greeting  he  started  :  again — as  if  that  per- 
petual doom  must  ever  haunt  them — the  once 
betrothed  lovers  met. 

The  play  was  Romeo  and  Juliet.  They  had 
read  it  when  almost  children,  sitting  in  the 
palace-garden ;  they  had  acted  it  once — the  bal- 
cony scene — leaning  over  the  terrace-wall.  She 
wondered,  Did  he  think  of  this  ?  But  she  dared 
not  look  at  him ;  she  dared  not  trust  herself  to 
speak.  So  she  remained  silent,  and  he  too. 
Katharine  sat  between  them — sometimes  list- 
ening  to  the  play,  sometimes  turning  a  restless, 
eager  gaze  around. 

If  any  human  eye  could  have  looked  into 
those  three  hearts,  he  would  have  seen  there  as 
mournful  depths  as  ever  the  world's  great  Poet 
sounded.  Ay,  and  it  will  be  so  to  the  end  of 
time  !  Cold  age  may  preach  them  down,  world- 
liness  may  make  a  mock  at  them,  but  still  the 
two  great  truths  of  life  are  Romance  and  Love. 

The  play  ended.  "  He  will  not  come,"  said 
Katharine,  laughing ;  "  I  mean — not  Hugh,  but 
Mr.  Lynedon,  whom  he  said  he  would  ask  to 
meet  us  here.  What  shall  we  do,  Eleanor? 
How  shall  we  punish  the  false  knight?"  she 
continued,  showing  forth  mockingly  the  real 
anger  which  she  felt.  It  was  a  good  disguise. 

Eleanor  answered  in  a  few  gentle  words. 
Philip  only  understood  that  they  were  a  plead-; 
ing — and  for  Lynedon ! 

"Will  you  take  the  place  of  our  faithless 
cavalier,  and  succor  us,  Mr.  Wychnor?"  was 
Katharine's  winning  request.  He  could  not 
but  accede.  He  felt  impelled  by  a  blind  destiny 
which  drove  him  on  against  his  will.  At  last 
he  ceased  even  to  strive  against  it. 

He  accompanied  the  two  ladies  home.  Then, 
when  Mrs.  Ogilvie,  in  her  own  irresistible  way, 
besought  him  not  to  leave  the  rescued  dnmsels 
in  solitude,  but  to  spend  a  quiet  hour  with  her- 
self and  Eleanor,  he  complied  passively — me- 
chanically— and  entered. 

There  were  flowers  on  the  table.  "The 
very  flowers,  Eleanor,  that  I— or  rather  you — 
admired  in  the  gardens  to-day!"  cried  Katha- 
rine. "  Well,  that  atones  for  the  falsehood  of 
this  evening.  Mr.  Lynedon  is  a  preux  chevalier, 
after  all.  A  bouquet  for  each !  How  kind ! 
is  it  not?" 

"Yes,  very!"  answered  Eleanor. 

"Yes,  very!"  mimicked  Katharine,  striving 
to  hide  her  excitement  under  a  flippant  tongue. 
"  Upon  my  word,  were  I  Mr.  Lynedon,  I  should 
be  in  a  state  of  high  indignation  !  And  a  note, 
too — to  me,  of  course.  Come,  will  you  answer 
it?— No?  Then  I  must.  Talk  to  Mr.  Wych- 
nor the  •while." 

She  went  away,  humming  a  gay  tune,  tear- 
ing the  envelope  to  pieces :  the  note,  itself  she 
crushed  in  her  hand  for  the  moment,  to  be  after- 
ward—  But  no  eye  followed  her  to  that  inner 
chamber.  Alas  !  every  human  being  has  some 
inner  chamber,  of  heart  or  home  ! 

They  were  together  at  last,  Philip  and  El- 
eanor, quite  alone.  He  felt  the  loneliness  witk 


THE  OGILVIES. 


115 


a  shuddering  feat — a  vague  desire  to  fly;  she, 
with  a  faint  hope,  a  wild  longing  to  throw  her- 
self at  his  feet,  and  pray  him  to  tell  her  what 
was  this  terrible  cloud  that  hung  between  them : 
yet  neither  had  the  power  to  move.  She  stood 
— her  fingers  beginning,  half-unconsciously,  to 
arrange  the  flowers  in  a  vase  :  he,  sitting  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  room,  whither  he  had  retired 
at  the  first  mention  of  Lynedon's  name,  neither 
moved,  nor  looked,  nor  spoke.  Gradually  his 
hands  dropped  from  the  book  he  had  taken,  and 
a  stray  moonbeam,  shining  through  the  white, 
half-drawn  curtains,  showed  his  face ;  so  white, 
so  fixed,  so  rigid,  that  it  might  have  been  that 
of  one  dead. 

It  was  shown  thus  to  her !  At  the  sight  she 
forgot  all  coldness,  bitterness,  pride — even  that 
reserve  which  some  call  womanly,  which  makes 
a  girl  shrink  from  being  the  first  to  say  to  her 
lover,  "Forgive!"  She  remembered  only  that 
they  had  loved  one  another — that  both  suffered. 
Ah !  he  did  suffer ;  she  saw  it  now — ay,  with  a 
strange  gladness,  for  the  suffering  showed  a 
lingering  love.  The  hand  of  one  or  other  must 
rend  the  cloud  between  them,  or  it  might  darken 
over  both  their  lives  eternally.  Should  that 
hand  be  hers  ? 

She  thought  a  moment  and  then  prayed ! 
She  was  one  of  those  little  children  who  fear 
not  to  look  up  every  hour  to  the  face  of  their 
Father  in  heaven.  Then  she  crept  noiselessly 
beside  her  lover. 

"Philip!—" 

He  heard  the  tremulous,  pleading  voice  5  saw 
the  outstretched  hands !  Forgetting  all,  he 
would  have  clasped  them,  have  sprung  forward 
and  fallen  on  her  bosom,  but  that  he  saw  there, 
placed  by  her  unconsciously,  in  the  agitation  of 
the  moment,  the  flowers — Lynedon's  flowers ! 
Then  came  rushing  back  upon  the  young  man's 
soul  its  love  and  its  despair— despair  that  must 
be  hidden  even  from  her.  What  right  had  he 
to  breathe  one  tender  word,  even  to  utter  one 
cry  of  misery,  in  the  ear  of  his  lost  beloved, 
when  she  was  another  man's  chosen  bride  ?  The 
struggle,  were  it  unto  death,  must  be  concealed, 
not  only  for  his  own  sake,  but  for  hers. 

He  did  conceal  it.  He  took  her  hand — only 
one — and  then  let  it  go,  not  rudely,  but  softly, 
though  the  chilling  action  wounded  her  ten 
times  more. 

"  You  are  very  kind.  Thank  you  !  I  hope 
you  will  be  happy,  indeed  I  do." 

"  Happy  !  Oh,  Philip,  never  in  this  world !" 
And  she  would  have  sunk  before  him,  but  that 
he  rose  and  gave  her  his  place.  The  action, 
which  seemed  as  one  of  mere  courtesy  to  any 
every-day  friend,  went  to  her  heart  like  a 
dagger. 

"  It  is  all  changed  with  us,  Philip ;  I  feel  it 
is."  And  she  burst  into  tears. 

He  felt  the  madness  rising  within  him,  and 
turned  to  fly.  But  he  could  not  go  and  leave 
her  thus.  He  came  near  once  more, .  and  said, 
in  a  low,  hurried  tone — 

"  I  have  been  unkind ;  I  have  made  you  weep. 
You  were  always  gentle ;  I  think  you  are  so, 
still.  But  I  will  not  pain  you  any  more,  Eleanor 
— let  me  call  you  so  this  once,  for  the  sake  of 
all  the  past." 

"  The  past !"  she  murmured. 

"You  know  it  is  the  past — eternally  the  past. 


Why  do  you  seek  to  bring  it  back  again  ?  For- 
get  it,  blot  it  out,  trample  on  it,  as  I  do."  And 
his  voice  rose  with  the  wild  passion  that  swelled 
within  him ;  but  it  sank  at  once  when  he  met 
her  upraised  eyes,  wherein  the  tears  were  frozen 
into  a  glassy  terror. 

"  Forgive  me !"  he  cried.  "  Let  me  say  fare- 
well now.  You  will  be  happy ;  and  I — I  shall 
not  suffer  much — not  much.  Do  not  think  of 
me,  except  in  forgiveness — " 

"  Oh,  Philip,  Philip,  it  is  you  who  should 
forgive  me!"  And  she  extended  her  loving 
arms;  but  he  thrust  them  back  with  a  half- 
frenzied  gesture. 

"  Eleanor,  I  thought  you  one  of  God's  angels ; 
but  a  demon  could  not  temjat  and  torture  me 
thus.  Think  what  we  once  were  to  one  another, 
and  then  of  the  gulf  between  us — a  wide,  fiery 
gulf.  Do  you  not  see  it  Eleanor  ?  I  can  not 
pass — I  dare  not.  Dare  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

The  word  was  scarcely  framed  on  her  lips 
when  Philip  stopped  it  with  a  cry. 

"  You  shall  not !  I  will  save  you  from  your- 
self. I  want  no  gentleness,  no  pity;  only  let 
me  go.  Loose  my  hand !" 

But  she  held  it  still. 

His  tones  sank  to  entreaty.  "Eleanor,  be 
merciful !  let  me  depart ;  I  can  be  nothing  to 
you  now.  I  would  have  been  every  thing ;  but 
it  is  too  late.  You  hold  me  still?  How  can 
you — how  dare  you — when  there  is  one  who 
stands  between  us !  Ah,  you  drop  my  hand 
now  !  I  knew  it !" 

He  stood  one  moment  looking  in  her  face. 
Then  he  cried,  passionately — 

"  Eleanor — mine  once,  now  mine  no  more  ! 
— though  misery,  torture,  sin  itself,  are  between 
us,  still,  for  the  last  time,  come  !" 

He  opened  his  arms,  and  strained  her  to  his 
heart,  so  tightly  that  she  almost  shrieked.  Then 
he  broke  away,  and  fled  precipitately  from  the 
house. 


CHAPTER  XL VI. 

Go— be  sure  of  my  love— by  that  treason  forgiven 

Of  my  prayers — by  the  blessings  they  bring  thee  from 

heaven ; 

Of  my  grief :— judge  the  length  of  tlie  sword  by  the  sheath's, 
By  the  silence  of  life — more  pathetic  than  death's. 

£.  B.  BROWNINS 

ELEANOR  OGILVIE'S  love  was  like  her  nature 
—calm,  silent,  deep.  It  had  threaded  the  whole 
course  of  her  life,  not  as  a  bursting  torrent,  but 
a  quiet,  ever-flowing  stream  "that  knew  no  fall.' 
When  the  change  came,  all  the  freshness  and 
beauty  passed  from  her  world,  leaving  it  arid 
and  dry.  She  made  no  outward  show  of  sorrow; 
for  she  deemed  it  alike  due  to  Philip  and  herself, 
that  whatever  had  come  between  their  love  to 
end  it  thus,  it  should  now  be  buried  out  of  sight. 
If,  indeed,  his  long  silence  had  but  too  truly 
foretold  his  change  toward  her,  and,  as  his  brok- 
en words  faintly  seemed  to  reveal,  some  other 
love  had  driven  her  from  his  heart — or,  at  least, 
some  new  bond  had  made  the  very  memory  of 
that  olden  pledge  a  sin — was  the  deserted  be- 
trothed to  lay  bare  her  sufferings,  to  be  a  mark 
for  the  pointed  finger  of  scornful  curiosity,  and 
the  glance  o'  *.rilr3t*  pity? — And  still  more, 


116 


THE  OGILVIES. 


was  she  to  suffer  idle  tongues  to  bring  reproach 
against  Aim  ?  Her  heart  folded  itself  over  this 
terrible  grief  as  close  as — nay,  closer  than  over 
its  precious  love;  even  as  the  cankered  leaf 
gathers  its  fibers  nearer  together,  to  hide  the 
cause  which  eats  its  life  away.  She  moved 
about  the  house  at  Summerwood — living  her 
outward  daily  life  of  gentle  tendance  on  the  des- 
olate and  complaining  Lady  Ogilvie ;  ever  the 
same  ministering  angel,  as  it  seemed  her  fortune 
always  to  be,  toward  one  sufferer  or  another. 
And  so  it  is  with  some,  who  have  themselves 
already  drained  to  the  dregs  the  cup  of  affliction. 
But  He  who  sees  fit  to  lift  unto  their  lips  the 
vinegar  and  the  gall,  also  places  in  their  hands 
the  honey  and  the  balm  which  they  may  pour 
out  to  others. 

At  times,  when  in  the  night-time  her  pent-up 
sorrow  expended  itself  in  bitterest  tears,  or  when 
in  the  twilight,  she  sat  by  Lady  Ogilvie,  whose 
complainings  were  then  hushed  in  the  heavy 
slumber  of  weakness  and  old  age.  Eleanor's 
brain  wearied  itself  in  conjectures  as  to  what 
this  terrible  mystery  could  be;  this  "gulf"  of 
which  Philip  had  spoken,  which  neither  he  nor 
she  must  dare  to  cross.  Ever  and  anon  there 
flashed  upon  her  memory  his  wild  tones  and  ges- 
tures— his  half-maddened  looks.  They  effaced 
the  thoughts  which  had  once  brought  comfort  to 
her.  Could  it  be  with  him  as  with  other  men 
of  whom  she  had  heard — that  his  face  and  his 
writings  alike  gave  the  lie  to  his  heart — without, 
all  fair ;  within,  all  foulness  and  sin  ?  Could  it 
be  that  her  own  pure  Philip  was  no  more ;  and 
in  his  stead  was  an  erring,  world-stained  man, 
to  whom  her  sight  had  brought  back,  remorse- 
fully, the  innocent  days  of  old  ? 

"  Oh,  no ! — not  that.  Let  me  believe  any 
thing  but  that!"  moaned  Eleanor,  as  one  even- 
ing, when  she  sat  all  alone  by  Lady  Ogilvie's 
couch,  these  thoughts  came,  wringing  her  very 
soul.  "  Oh,  my  Philip !  I  could  bear  that  you 
should  love  me  no  more — that  another  should 
stand  in  my  place,  and  be  to  you  all  I  was,  and 
all  I  hoped  to  be — but  let  me  not  think  you  un- 
worthy. It  would  kill  me ;  I  feel  it  would  !" 
And  she  leant  her  head  against  the  cushion  of 
the  sofa,  and  gave  way  to  a  burst  of  agonizing 
sobs.  They  half  aroused  Lady  Ogilvie,  who 
moved,  and  said,  dreamily — 

"Katharine,  my  child!  What!  are  you  cry- 
ing !  You  shall  not  be  married  unless —  Ah ! 
Eleanor,  it  is  you !  I  might  have  remembered 
that  it  was  not  Katharine — she  never  comes  to 
sit  by  her  mother  now,"  murmured  the  feeble 
voice,  in  a  touching  complaint. 

It  went  to  Eleanor's  heart,  even  amidst  her 
own  sorrow.  Struggling,  she  repressed  all  ut- 
terance of  the  grief  which  her  aunt  had  not  yet 
seen ;  and  leaned  over  her  tenderly. 

"  Katharine  will  come  soon,  dear  aunt.  I  am 
sure  she  would  be  here  to-morrow  if  she  thought 
you  wished  for  her.  Shall  we  send?" 

"  No,  no,  I  have  no  right  now.  She  has  her 
husband,  and  her  friends,  and  her  gayeties.  She 
hates  Summerwood.  too ;  she  told  me  so.  And 
I — who  was  so  anxious  for  her  marriage  with 
Hugh,  that  she  might  still  live  here,  and  no  one 
might  come  to  part  my  child  from  me— I  did  not 
think  she  would  have  gone  away  of  her  own  ac- 
cord." 

Eleanor,  as  she  stood  by  Lady  Ogilvie's  couch, 


thought  of  her  own  mother,  now  sife  m  heaven, 
from  whom,  while  life  lasted,  neither  fate  nor  an 
erring  will  had  ever  taker  away  the  clasp  of  a 
daughter's  loving  arms.  And  while,  strong 
through  the  dividing  shade  w  of  death — of  inter- 
vening years— of  other  bords  and  other  griefs — 
shone  the  memory  of  this  first,  holiest  love,  she 
lifted  her  heart  with  thankful  joy  that  her  bless- 
ed  work  had  been  fulfilled.  From  the  eternal 
shore,  the  mother  now,  perchance,  stretched 
forth,  to  the  struggling  and  suffering  one,  her 
spirit-arms,  murmuring,  "  My  child — my  true 
and  duteous  child — I  wait  for  thee !  Be  patient, 
and  endure !" 

Lady  Ogilvie  felt  her  hand  taken  silently 
What  word  of  consolation  could  have  broken  in 
upon  the  deserted  parent's  tears  ?  But  the 
touch  seemed  to  yield  comfort.  "You  are  a 
kind,  dear  girl.  Eleanor;  I  am  very  glad  to  have 
you  here.  I  think  you  do  me  good.  Thank  you !" 

Eleanor  kissed  her  aunt's  cheek,  and  was  then 
about  to  sit  down  by  the  couch  on  a  little  ottoman, 
when  Lady  Ogilvie  prevented  her. 

"Not  there — not  there.  Katharine  always 
liked  to  sit  beside  me  thus.  She  does  not  care 
for  it  now;  but  no  one  shall  have  Katharine's 
place — no,  no !"  And  the  poor  mother  again 
began  to  weep. 

Eleanor  took  her  seat  at  the  foot  of  the  sofa 
in  compassionate  silence. 

Dear  aunt,"  she  whispered  at  length,  "your 
Katharine  loves  you  as  much  as  ever.  You 
must  not  think  her  lost  to  you  because  she  is 
married." 

"  Ah,  that  is  what  people  say.  I  once  said 
the  same  myself  to  a  mother  at  her  child's  wed- 
ding. Let  me  see  who  was  it?"  and  her  wan- 
dering thoughts  seemed  eagerly  to  catch  at  the 
subject.  "Yes,  I  remember  now,  it  was  on 
Bella's  wedding-day,  and  I  was  talking  to  her 
husband's  mother/  Poor  Mrs.  Pennythorne! 
She  made  me  feel  for  her,  for  she,  too,  had  one 
child — a  son,  I  think.  She  said  he  must  bring 
his  wife  home,  because  she  could  not  bear  to 
part  with  him.  I  wonder  if  she  ever  did !" 

"Yes!"  said  Eleanor,  softly. 

"  Then  her  son  is  as  unkind  as  my  Katharine. 
He  forgets  his  mother.  Poor  thing !  poor  thing ! 
She  is  left  all  alone,  like  me !" 

"Not  so;  far  lonelier,"  said  Eleanor's  low 
voice.  "Her  son  is  dead." 

"  Dead  !  dead  !"  cried  Lady  Ogilvie ;  "  and  1 
have  still  my  Katharine  well  and  happy.  God 
forgive  me!  I  will  never  murmur  any  more." 
And,  deeply  moved,  she  lay  back  in  silence  for 
many  minutes.  Then  she  said — 

"  Eleanor,  1  should  like  to  hear  more  about 
that  poor  mother.  Where  did  you  learn  these 
news  of  her?" 

"I  saw  her  when  I  was  in  London,  three 
weeks  since,"  answered  Eleanor,  in  a  tremulous 
voice,  remembering  what  years  of  sorrow  she 
had  lived  in  those  three  weeks. 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Pennythorne !  I  wish  I  could 
talk  to  her.  Do  you  think  she  would  come  and 
see  me?  It  m-ight  do  her  good,"  said  Lady 
Ogilvie,  yearning  after  this  new  sympathy; 
which  brought  back  somewhat  of  her  own 
thoughtful,  kindly  nature,  Jong  suppressed  by 
the  acquired  selfishness  of  sickness  and  old  age. 

Eleanor  gladly  seconded  the  plan;  and  surely 
she  might  be  forgiven,  if  there  flashed  across 


THE  OGILVIES. 


117 


her  mind  the  thought  that  through  this  channel 
might  come  tidings  of  Philip  Wychnor. 

A  few  days  more,  and  she  had  succeeded  in 
accomplishing  her  aunt's  desire.  Mrs.  Penny- 
thorne,  wondering  and  shrinking,  crept  silently 
into  the  room,  scarcely  believing  that  the  aged 
and  sickly  form  which  at  her  entrance  half 
arose  from  the  couch,  could  be  the  tall  and 
stately  Lady  Ogilvie.  Still  more  surprised  was 
she  when  Katharine's  mother,  glancing  at  her 
black  garments,  and  then  for  an  instant  regard- 
ing her  pale,  meek  face,  grief-worn  but  calm, 
laid  her  head  on  Mrs.  Pennythorne's  shoulder 
and  burst  into  tears. 

Then,  to  the  mother  of  the  Dead,  came  that 
new  strength  and  dignity  born  of  her  sorrow; 
and  she  who  had  given  her  one  lamb  from  her 
bosom  to  be  sheltered  in  the  eternal  fold,  spoke 
comforting  words  unto  her  whose  grief  was  for 
the  living  gone  astray.  They  talked  not  long 
of  Katharine ;  but  passed  on  to  the  subject  that 
was  now  rarely  absent  from  Mrs.  Pennythorne's 
lips,  and  never  from  her  heart,  though  it  dwelt 
on  both  with  a  holy  calmness,  and  without  pain. 
She  spoke  of  Leigh — of  all  that  was  good  and 
beautiful  in  himself,  of  all  that  was  hopeful  in 
his  death.  And  amidst  the  simple  and  touching 
story  of  his  illness  and  his  passing  away — she 
spoke  of  the  last  parting  by  no  harsher  word — 
she  continually  uttered,  and  ever  with  deep  ten- 
derness and  thankful  blessings,  one  name — the 
name  of  Philip  Wychnor. 

Half-hidden  in  the  window,  Eleanor  listened 
to  the  tale  which  the  grateful  mother  told.  She 
heard  of  Philip's  struggles,  of  his  noble  patience, 
of  those  high  qualities  which  had  awakened  in 
poor  Leigh  such  an  intense  love — and  afterward 
of  the  almost  womanly  tenderness  which  had 
smoothed  the  sick  boy's  pillow,  filling  his  heart 
with  joy  and  peace  even  to  the  last.  And  then 
Mrs.  Pennythorne  spoke  of  the  gentle  kindness 
which  had  since  led  Philip,  prosperous  and 
courted  as  he  was,  to  visit  her  in  her  loneliness 
with  comfort  and  cheer. 

','  My  dear  boy  always  said  that  Mr.  Wychnor 
talked  like  an  angel,"  continued  Mrs.  Penny- 
thorne. "And  so  he  does.  Night  and  day  I 
pray  Heaven  to  reward  him  for  the  blessings  he 
has  brought  to  me  and  mine.  And  though  he  is 
sadly  changed  of  late,  and  I  can  see  there  is 
more  in  his  heart  than  even  /  know  of,  yet  his 
words  are  like  an  angel's  still.  May  God  com- 
fort him  and  bless  him  evermore  !" 

"Amen!"  was  the  faint  echo,  no  louder  than 
a  breath.  And  shrouded  from  sight.  Eleanor, 
with  streaming,  uplifted  eyes  and  clasped  hands, 
poured  forth  her  passionate  thanksgiving  for  the 
worthiness  of  him  she  loved.  "He  is  not  mine 
— he  never  may  be ;  but  he  is  yet  all  I  believed 
— good,  pure,  noble.  My  Philip,  my  true  Philip, 
God  bless  thee !  we  shall  yet  stand  side  by  side 
in  His  heaven,  and  look  upon  each  other's  face 
without  a  tear." 

She  was  still  in  the  recess  when  Mrs.  Penny- 
thorne entered  it.  her  usual  timid  steps  seeming 
more  reluctant  than  ordinary. 

"Your  aunt  would  like  to  sleep  a  little,  Miss 
Ogilvie,  so  she  has  sent  me  to  you." 

"Eleanor  roused  herself,  and  spoke  wswmly 
and  gratefully  to  the  pale-faced  woman  <rho 
loved  Philip  so  well. 

"  Indeed,  if  it  has  done  Lady  Ogilvie     iy 


good,  I  am  sure  I  am  quite  glad  I  came,"  an- 
swered Mrs.  Pennythorne.  "  Though  it  was  a 
struggle,  as  you  say,  for  I  hardly  ever  go  out 
now,"  and  a  faint  sigh  passed  the  lips  of  Leigh's 
mother.  "  But  my  husband  persuaded  me,  and 
— Mr.  Wychnor  too." 

Here  she  hesitated,  and  glanced  doubtfully  at 
Eleanor ;  as  though  she  had  something  more  to 
say,  but  waited  for  a  little  encouragement.  It 
came  not,  however;  and  Mrs.  Pennythorn*, 
conquering  her  shyness,  went  on :  "  Mr.  Wych- 
nor was  very  kind  ;  he  brought  me  here — almost 
to  the  park  gates.  When  he  said  good-by,  he 
told  me  he  was  going  away  for  a  long  time." — 
Eleanor  started. — "  You  will  forgive  my  talking 
about  him  thus,  for  I  imagine  Mr.  Wychnor  is 
a  friend  of  your  family,  Miss  Ogilvie.  Indeed," 
and  making  a  sudden  effort,  Mrs.  Pennvtbcrne 
fulfilled  her  mission,  "  he  asked  me  to  give  you 
this  letter  when  I  found  you  alone.  And  now  I 
will  go  and  sit  by  your  aunt  until  she  awakes," 
hastily  added  she,  with  instinctive  delicacy. 

She  had  said  all  she  knew,  and  she  had 
guessed  but  little  more;  being  a  woman  of 
small  penetration,  and  less  curiosity.  But  no 
woman,  worthy  the  name,  could  have  seen  the 
violent  agitation  which  Eleanor  vainly  strove  to 
repress,  without  gliding  away,  so  that,  whatever 
unknown  sorrow  there  was,  it  might  have  free 
leave  to  flow. 

Philip's  letter  ran  thus  : — 

"I  pray  you  to  forgive  all  I  said  and  did  that 
night  j  I  was  almost  mad !  It  is  not  for  me  to 
occasion  you  suffering,  but  you  tried  me  so 
bitterly — wherefore,  I  can  not  tell.  Knowing 
what  we  once  were  to  one  another,  and  the  bar 
there  is  between  us  now,  I  pray — and  you  your- 
self must  say  amen  to  my  prayer — that  on  this 
side  heaven  we  may  never  meet  again  ! 

"  I  waited  until  these  lines  could  reach  you 
safely.  I  have  written  no  name,  lest  any  con- 
trary chance  might  occasion  you  pain.  You 
see  I  think  of  you  even  now.  Farewell !  fare- 
well!" 

And  this  was  the  end — the  end  of  all !  No 
more  love — no  more  hope — not  even  the  comfort 
of  sorrow.  His  words  seemed  to  imply  that 
regret  itself  was  sin.  The  unknown  bar  be- 
tween them  was  eternal.  He  said  so,  and  it 
must  be  true.  Then,  and  not  till  then,  came 
upon  Eleanor  the  terrible  darkness — through 
which  Philip  had  once  passed — the  darkness  of 
a  world  where  love  has  been,  is  not,  and  will  be 
no  more  forever !  The  man,  with  his  strong, 
great  soul,  nearer  perchance  to  Heaven,  and  so 
interpenetrated  with  the  Divine  that  the  earthly 
held  but  a  secondary  place  therein — the  man 
struggled  and  conquered.  The  weaker,  ten- 
derer woman,  whose  very  religion  was  Eve- 
like,  "for  God — in  Aim,"  sank  beneath  that 
mighty  woe. 

A  little  while  longer  Eleanor  strove  against 
the  misery  which  pressed  her  to  the  earth.  At 
morning  she  rose,  and  at  evening  she  lay  down, 
mechanically  following  the  round  of  daily  occu- 
pation. At  last  one  night  she  entered  her  cham- 
ber— tried  to  collect  her  wandering  thoughts,  so 
that  in  some  measure  she  might  "set  her  house 
in  order" — and  then  laid  her  weary  head  on  the 
pillow,  with  a  consciousness  that  she  would  lift 
it  up  no  more. 

All  through  the  night  it  seemed  as  though  t 


THE   OGILVIES. 


leadon  hand  pressed  heavily  on  her  brow;  she 
did  not  writhe  beneath  it,  for  it  felt  cold,  calm, 
like  the  touch  of  Death  upon  the  throbbing 
veins  saying,  "Peace— be  still!"  In  the  dark- 
ness  she  saw,  even  with  closed  eyes,  the  shining 
of  olden  faces — images  from  those  early  days 
when  the  one  face  had  never  yet  crossed  her 
dreams.  Clearer  than  all — its  sorrowful  patience 
of  earth  transmuted  into  a  heavenly  calmness — 
she  beheld  her  mother's  loving  smile ;  nay,  break- 
ing  through  the  silence,  her  bewildered  fancy 
almost  distinguished  the  voice,  faint  as  when  her 
ear  drank  its  last  accents,  ere  they  were  stilled 
for  eternity,  "My  child — my  dear  child  !" 

"  Mother,  mother,  my  work  is  done.  Let  me 
come  to  thee !"  was  Eleanor's  low,  yearning 
cry. 

And  with  that  last  memory  of  the  solemn  past 
shutting  out  all  the  anguish  of  the  present,  she 
passed  into  the  wide,  horror-peopled  world  of 
delirium. 


CHAPTER  XL VII. 

For  a  fearful  time 

We  can  keep  down  these  floodgates  of  the  heart ; 
But  we  must  draw  them  some  time,  or  'twill  burst 
Like  sand  this  brave  embankment  of  the  breast, 
.And  drain  itself  to  dry  death.    When  pride  thaws, 
Look  for  floods. 

PHILIP  BAILKT. 

WE  will  pass  from  this  scene  of  sorrow  and 
darkness  into  another  that  seems  all  sunshine. 
Yet  if,  looking  on  these  two  phases  of  life,  we 
are  fain  to  muse  doubtfully  on  the  strange  con- 
trasts of  human  fate,  let  us  remember  that  the 
clouds  furling  away  oft  leave  behind  them  cool- 
ness and  dew,  while  the  sunbeams  may  grow 
into  a  dazzling  glare,  blinding  and  scorching 
wherever  they  rest. 

Day  after  day,  week  after  week,  Katharine 
Ogilvie  basked  in  the  new  glory  which  had  burst 
upon  her  world.  Paul  Lynedon's  influence  was 
upon  her  and  around  her  wherever  she  moved. 
It  was  the  olden  dream,  the  dream  of  girlhood, 
renewed  «vith  tenfold  power.  All  her  artificial 
self  fell  from  her  like  a  garment,  and  she  stood 
before  this  man — this  world-jaded,  almost  heart- 
less man — a  creature  formed  out  of  the  long-past 
ideal  of  his  youth ;  beautiful,  and  most  true, 
whether  for  good  or  evil.  There  was  no  false- 
ness in  her ;  and  that  which  had  gathered  over 
Paul  Lynedon  crumbled  into  dust  and  ashes  be- 
fore the  sun-gleam  of  her  eyes.  His  wavering 
nature  was  subdued  by  the  energy  of  her  own. 
Sisera-like,  "at  her  feet  he  bowed,  he  fell;" 
struck  down  by  the  fierce  might  of  a  love  whose 
very  crime  and  hopelessness  bound  him  with 
closer  chains.  He  could  not  struggle  against 
them — he  did  not  try.  He  would  now  have 
given  half  of  his  wasted,  hollow,  thoughtless  ex- 
istence, to  purchase  one  day,  one  hour,  of  this 
full,  strong,  real  life  that  now  thrilled  his  being, 
even  though  ,  coursed  through  every  vein  like 
molten  fire  He  would  have  laid  himself  down, 
body  and  soul,  for  her  feet  to  trample  on ;  rather 
than  free  himself  from  the  spell  wherewith  she 
bound  him,  or  pass  from  her  presence,  and  be 
haunted  by  her  terrible  power  no  more. 

And  this  passion  was  so  strong  within  him, 
that  it  found  no  utterance  He  sank  dumb  be- 


fore her — in  her  sight  he  was  humble  as  a  little 
child.  His  lips,  which  to  many  another  woman 
had  framed  the  language  of  idle  compliment,  or 
of  still  softer  and  more  beguiling  tenderness, 
could  not  breathe  one  word  that  might  startle 
the  proud  ear  of  Katharine  Ogilvie.  But  though 
this  mad,  erring  love  was  never  tittered,  she 
knew  it  well.  The  knowledge  dawned  upon 
her  by  slow  degrees ;  and  she  felt  that  too  late 
— oh,  fearfully  too  late ! — the  dream  of  her  youth 
had  been  fulfilled,  and  that  she  was  loved  even 
as  she  had  loved. 

What  a  future  lay  before  the  hapless  wife 
whose  rash  and  frenzied  tongue,  in  taking  the 
false  vow,  had  given  the  lie  to  her  heart !  A 
whole  life  of  feigning;  year  after  year  to  wear 
the  mask  of  affection,  or  at  least  of  duty ;  to  dis- 
play the  mocking  semblance  of  a  happy  home  j 
— worse  than  all,  to  smile  answeringly  upon  the 
unsuspecting,  cheerful  face  that  must  be  forever 
at  her  side,  haunting,  like  an  accusing  spirit,  the 
wife  who  loved  another  man  dearer  than  her 
husband.  This  must  be  her  doom,  even  if,  still 
guiltless,  she  trod  her  burning  heart  into  ashes, 
and  walked  on  with  a  serene  eye  and  dumb, 
smiling  lip.  But  if  otherwise — 

Katharine  never  dreamed  of  that.  Blinded, 
she  rushed  to  the  very  brink  of  the  abyss ;  but 
there  was  a  strong  purity  in  her  heart  still.  She 
did  not  once  see  the  yawning  gulf  before  her,  for 
her  eyes  were  turned  above  it — turned  toward 
the  dream-like  love,  the  guiding  star  of  her  life, 
which  by  its  unrequited  loneliness  had  become 
so  spiritualized,  that  the  taint  of  earthly  passion 
had  scarce  touched  it,  even  now. 

It  sometimes  chances  that  the  realities  of 
wedded  life,  and  the  calm  peace  of  household 
ties,  have  power  to  cast  into  shadow  the  remem- 
brance of  the  deepest  former  love.  But  Katha- 
rine was  so  young,  that  although  a  wife,  she  had 
a  girl's  heart  still ;  and  that  heart  her  husband 
never  sought  to  win  from  its  romance  to  the 
still  affection  of  home.  Perhaps  he  felt  the  trial 
was  beyond  his  power ;  and  so,  content  with  the 
guarding  circlet  on  her  finger,  he  desired  ,not 
from  her  the  only  thing  which  can  make  the 
marriage-bond  inviolate — a  wedded  heart. 

Another  tie  was  there  wanting — another  safe- 
guard in  this  perilous,  loveless  home.  No  child 
had  come  with  its  little  twining  arms  to  draw 
together  the  divided  hearts  of  husband  and  wife, 
and  concentrate  in  one  parental  bond  the  wan. 
dering  love  of  both.  Often,  when  she  paced  her 
lonely  home,  which  her  husband  now  found  far 
less  attractive  than  his  congenial  country  sports, 
Katharine  shuddered  at  the  delicious  poison 
which,  drop  by  drop,  was  falling  into  her  life's 
cup,  converting  even  the  faint  affection  she  yet 
felt  for  Hugh  into  a  feeling  almost  like  hatred. 
And  then  the  wife,  terrified  at  the  change  that 
was  stealing  over  her,  thought,  with  a  vain,  re- 
gretful longing,  that  it  might  not  have  been  so 
with  her,  had  the  void  in  her  heart  been  filled  up 
with  a  mother's  yearning  love. 

Day  after  day,  without  any  arranged  plan,  but 
by  some  chance  coincidence  springing  from  the 
combined  will  of  both,  she  and  Paul  Lynedon 
met.  Every  morning  when  she  rose,  Katharine 
felt  that  she  was  sure,  by  some  fortune  or  other, 
to  see  him  ere  night.  Now,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life  she  knew  what  it  is  to  be  loved ;  to  feel 
encompassed  continually,  in  absence  or  pres- 


THE  OGILVIES. 


119 


en"%  with  the  power  of  anothei"s  soul;  to  live 
wilh  every  day,  every  hour,  threaded  by  those 
elecf/ic  Imks  of  sympathy  which,  through  all 
intervening  distance,  seem  to  convey  to  one 
heart  the  consciousness  of  another's  meeting 
thoughts.  Around  and  about  her  path  wove 
these  airy  fetters,  encircling  her  in  a  web 
through  which  she  could  not  pass.  She  felt  it 
binding  her  closer  and  closer;  but  it  seemed 
drawn  by  the  hand  of  destiny.  A  little  while 
her  conscience  wrestled,  then  she  became  still 
and  struggled  no  more. 

Against  these  two  erring  ones  the  world's 
tongue  had  not  yet  been  lifted.  With  others,  as 
well  as  with  Katharine  herself,  Paul  Lynedon  set 
a  watch  upon  his  lips  and  actions.  He  who  had 
worn  carelessly  and  openly  the  chains  of  many 
another  light  fancy,  now  buried  this  strong  real 
love — the  only  true  love  of  his  life — in  the  very 
depths  of  his  heart.  Besides,  his  passion  had 
sprung  up,  budded  and  blossomed,  in  a  space  so 
short  that  the  world  had  no  time  to  note  its 
growth,  and  probably  would  not  have  believed  in 
its  existence.  But 

"  Love  counts  time  by  heart-throbs,  and  not  years." 

Mrs.  Lancaster  —  gossiping,  light-tongued 
Mrs.  Lancaster — visited  her  "dear,  talented, 
charming  friend,  Mrs.  Hugh  Ogilvie,"  as  fre- 
quently as  ever,  without  seeing  the  haunting 
shadow  that,  near  or  distant,  followed  Katharine 
wherever  she  moved.  Indeed,  the  lady  often 
made  Paul  writhe  beneath  her  hints  and  inuen- 
does  respecting  his  various  flames,  past  and  pres- 
ent, which  she  had  discovered— or  at  least 
thought  she  had. 

One  morning,  she  amused  herself  thus  during 
the  whole  of  a  long  visit  at  which  she  had  met 
Lynedon  at  Mrs.  Ogilvie's.  Paul  bore  the  jests 
restlessly  at  first,  then  indifferently !  for  in  the 
calm,  proud  eye  and  slightly-curled  lip  of  the 
sole  face  he  ever  watched,  he  saw  that  no  cre- 
dence was  given  to  the  idle  tale.  Katharine 
knew  now — and  the  knowledge  came  mingled 
with  remorse  and  despair — that  she  herself  was 
the  only  woman  who  had  ever  had  power  to 
sway  Paul  Lynedon's  soul. 

The  last  historiette  which  Mrs.  Lancaster  fix- 
ed upon  for  the  delectation  of  her  former  favor- 
ite, was  the  suspected  love  episode  with  Eleanor 
Ogilvie.  She  continued  the  jest  even  further 
than  she  believed  in  it  herself,  as  she  observed, 
with  malicious  pleasure,  that  Paul  seemed  more 
than  usually  sensitive  on  this  point. 

"I  always  thought,  Mr.  Lynedon,  that  there 
was  some  deep  mystery  in  your  sudden  escapade 
to  the  Continent ;  and  a  friend  of  yours  at  last 
enlightened  me  a  little  on  the  subject.  Confess, 
now,  as  we  are  quite  alone — for  Mrs.  Ogilvie's 
sisterly  ears  need  not  listen  unless  she  chooses 
— confess  that  your  memory  treasured  long  a  cer- 
tain visit  at  Summerwoood,  and  that  the  meeting 
in  London  is  not  entirely  accidental,  any  more 
than  was  the  rencounter  at  Florence. 

Paul  Lynedon  might  have  laughed  off  the  ac- 
cusation, but  that  Katharine's  eyes  were  upon 
him.  He  answered,  earnestly — 

"  Indeed,  Mrs.  Lancaster,  I  am  not  accounta- 
ble for  any  imputed  motives.  My  pleasure  in 
Miss  Ogilvie's  society  is  not  lessened  by  the  fact 
that  I  have  always  owed  it  to  chance  alone. 
Most  truly  I  do  bear,  and  shall  beai  all  my  life" 


(his  tone  grew  lower  ant.  more  eainest  still), 
"the  memory  of  that  week  at  Summerwood." 

The  dark  eyes  turned  away,  though  not  until 
he  had  seen  the  gleam  of  rapture  which  kindled 
them  into  dazzling  light. 

"  But  the  rumor  from  Italy,  which  made  us 
hope  to  see  a  Mrs.  Lynedon  ere  long — how  can 
you  explain  that?"  pursued  Mrs.  Lancaster, 
who,  in  resigning,  perforce,  the  character  of  a 
"  woman  of  genius,"  had  assumed  that  of  the 
most  annoying  and  pertinacious  gossip  who 
ever  sinned  against  good  sense  and  good  breed- 
ing. 

"  I  think  you  are  mistaken,"  said  Mrs.  Ogil- 
vie, with  some  dignity.  "My  sister," — (since 
her  marriage,  Katharine  had  ever  most  punctil- 
iously used  this  title,  thus  gratifying  at  once  her 
own  real  affection  for  Eleanor,  arid  showing  in 
the  world's  sight  that  outward  respect  which 
she  always  paid  to  her  husband) — "my  sister 
never  met  your  friend  when  abroad.  Is  it  not 
so,  Mr.  Lynedon?" 

With  that  look  meeting  his,  Paul  for  his 
life's  worth  could  not  have  uttered  a  falsehood. 

"I  had.  indeed,  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Miss 
Ogilvie  and  Mrs.  Breynton  at  Florence,  but — " 

His  further  hurried  explanation  was  stopped 
by  the  entrance  of  a  messenger  from  Summer- 
wood,  bringing  tidings  of  Eleanor's  severe  ill- 
ness. Mrs.  Lancaster,  who  always  spread  her 
wings  and  fled  away  before  the  least  cloud  of 
adversity,  made  a  hasty  disappearance.  Kath- 
arine, startled,  and  touched  with  self-reproach 
for  the  neglect  which  for  weeks  past  had  made 
her  forget  all  olden  ties  in  one  absorbing  dream, 
was  left  alone — alone,  save  for  the  one  ever- 
haunting  shadow  which  now  approached  her. 

She  started  up  almost  angrily;  for  the  images 
of  Hugh  and  Hugh's  dying  sister  were  then 
present  to  the  conscience-stricken  wife.  "  You 
here,  Mr.  Lynedon !  I  thought  you  had  departed 
with  your  friend  1" 

"  How  could  I  go  and  leave  you  thus  ?"  said 
Paul,  softly.  "Remember,  it  is  not  the  first 
time  that  I  have  been  with  you  in  your  sorrow." 

Katharine  looked  up,  to  meet  the  same  face 
which  years  before  had  bent  over  the  trembling, 
weeping  child ;  the  same  look,  the  same  tone, 
yet  fraught  with  a  tenderness  deeper  a  thousand- 
fold. She  saw  it,  and  a  strange  terror  came 
over  her :  she  closed  her  eyes ;  she  dared  not 
look  again.  Pressing  back  all  the  memories 
that  were  thronging  madly  to  her  heart,  she 
arose,  saying— 

"  That  is  long  ago — very  long  ago,  Mr.  Lyne- 
don !  I  must  now  think  not  of  the  past  but  the 
present.  My  husband" — and  she  desperately 
tried  to  strengthen  herself  with  the  word — "my 
husband  is  from  home ;  I  will  go  to  Summer- 
wood  at  once  myself." 

"  It  is  a  long  distance.  If  I  were  permitted 
to  accompany — at  least,  to  follow  you  in  a  few 
hours,"  he  added,  correcting  himself,  "  it  would 
give  me  real  happiness.  Indeed,  my  own 
anxiety — " 

Katharine  turned  round  suddenly,  with  a  doubt- 
ful, penetrating  glance.  Lynedon  perceived  it. 

"  You  do  not — you  will  not  believe  that  idle 
tale  ?  you  can  not  think  that  I — that  I  ever  did 
or  ever  shall  love  any  woman  living,  save — " 
He  paused  abruptly — then  eagerJy  caught  her 
hand. 


1120 


THE  OGILVIES. 


The  burning  crimson  rushed  to  Katharine's 
very  brow.  A  moment,  and  she  drew  her  hand 
*way ;  not  hurriedly,  but  with  a  cold,  haughty 
gesture.  She  reme'mbered,  still,  that  she  was 
Hugh's  wife. 

"Mr.  Lynedon,  you  really  misinterpret  ray 
thoughts;  this  confidence  was  quite  unnecessary 
and  I  believe  unasked.  Let  us  change  the  sub- 
ject." 

He  shrank  abashed  and  humbled  before  her 
look  and  tone.  Katharine  ruled  him  with  an 
irresistible  sway,  chaining  even  the  torrent  of 
passion  that  was  ready  to  burst  forth.  And  she 
— loving  as  she  did — had  strength  thus  to  put  a 
seal  on  his  love,  that  he  should  not  utter  it.  But 
the  struggle  was  such  as  woman  can  rarely  en- 
dure, and  live. 

Soon  afterward  Paul  Lynedon  quitted  her 
presence.  She  parted  from  him  with  a  few 
words  of  gentle  but  distant  kindness,  which  in- 
stantly lighted  up  his  whole  countenance  with 
joy.  But  when  he  was  gone,  she  sank  back  ex- 
hausted, and  lay  for  a  long  time  almost  sense- 
less. Again  and  again  there  darted  through  her 
heart  that  sharp,  arrowy  pain — which  she  had 
first  felt  after  the  night  when  a  few  chance 
words,  false  words  as  she  now  believed,  had 
swept  away  all  hope  and  love  forever  from  her 
life.  Of  late  this  pain  had- been  more  frequent 
and  intense ;  and  now,  as  she  lay  alone,  pressing 
her  hand  upon  her  heart,  every  pulse  of  which 
she  seemed  to  feel  and  hear,  a  thought  came — 
solemn,  startling !  the  thought  that  even  now 
upon  her,  so  full  of  life,  of  youth,  and  youth's 
wildest  passions,  might  be  creeping  a  dark 
shadow  from  the  unseen  world. 

For  an  instant  she  trembled ;  and  then  the 
thought  came  again,  bearing  with  it  a  flood  of 
joy;  Lifting  a  vail  between  her  and  the  dreaded 
future,  Katharine  saw  a  shadowy  hand ;  she 
would  have  fallen  down  and  blessed  it,  even 
though  it  were  the  hand  of  death. 

"It  must  be  so,"  she  said  softly  to  herself; 
"I  shall  die,  I  shall  die!"  and  her  tone  rose 
into  a  desperate  joy.  "  This  long,  fearful  life 
will  not  be.  I  shall  pass  away  and  escape.  Oh 
rest ! — oh  peace  ! — come  soon — soon  !  Let  me 
sleep  an  eternal  sleep  1  Let  me  feel  no  more — 
suffer  no  more !" 

Poor  struggling  one — stretching  thine  arras 
from  life's  desolate  shore  to  the  wide,  dark 
ocean  beyond — is  there  no  mercy  in  earth  or 
heaven  for  thee  ?  Thy  lips  now  drain  the  cup 
thine  own  hands  lifted;  yet,  if  the  suffering 
righteous  needeth  compassion,  surely  the  stricken 
sinner  needeth  more. 

Ye  who,  untempted,  walk  secure,  with  Levite 
step  and  averted  face,  noting  carefully  how  by 
his  own  vain  folly  or  wickedness  your  weaker 
brother  "  fell  among  thieves," — should  ye  not 
rather  come  with  the  merciful  touch,  the  cleans- 
ing water,  and  then  the  oil  and  wine,  that  the 
erring  one  may  be  saved,  and  the  heavenward 
road  receive  o*ie  strengthened,,  hopeful  traveler 
more  ? 


CHAPTER  XL VIII. 

'  Ah,  why,"  said  Ellen,  sighing  to  herself, 
1  Why  do  not  words,  and  kiss,  and  solemn  pledge- 
ts hv  dc  not  these  p'eva'l,  for  human  life 


To  keep  two  hearts  together,  that  began 

Their  spring-time  with  one  love,  and  that  have  need 

Of  mutual  pity  and  forgiveness,  sweet 

To  grant,  or  be  received  !" 

WORDSWORTH. 

KATHARINE  OGILVIE  reached  Summerwood 
when  it  was  almost  night.  Over  all  the  hous« 
ihere  seemed  a  stillness  and  hush,  as  u  a  dwel- 
ling where  there  is  one  life,  a  precious  life, 
hanging  on  a  thread.  Stealthy,  noiseless  foot- 
steps—doors opened  and  closed  without  a  sound 
— loud  voices  softened  into  anxious  whispers — 
all  showed  how  much  Eleanor  was  beloved. 
Sir  Robert,  his  parliamentary  papers  and  eternal 
jlue-books  lying  unopened,  sat  talking  with  the 
physician,  and  often  glancing  sorrowfully  at  the 
neglected  tea-equipage,  behind  which  he  missed 
the  gentle  moonlight  smile  of  his  niece,  even 
more  than  the  long-absent  one  of  his  ever-ailing 
wife.  Lady  Ogilvie,  unable  to  quit  her  couch, 
lay  with  her  door  opened,  listening  to  every 
sound.  Between  her  and  the  sick-chamber  there 
moved  continually,  with  light  steps  and  mourn- 
ing garments,  a  figure  so  unobtrusive  that  Kath- 
arine did  not  for  some  time  notice  it. 
It  was  Mrs.  Penny thorne. 

She  had  come  in  by  chance,  the  day  after  poor 
Eleanor  had  laid  down  her  weary  head — perhaps 
forever.  Then  toward  the  sick  girl  the  heart 
of  the  childless  mother  yearned.  She  became 
her  nurse,  never  quitting  her  except  to  speak  a 
few  words  of  comfort  to  the  terrified  and  grief- 
stricken  Lady  Ogilvie.  In  truth,  Mrs.  Penny- 
thorne, meek  and  quiet  as  she  was,  had  become 
the  guiding  spirit  in  this  house  of  sickness.  But 
she  crept  into  her  place  so  gradually,  anc  sus- 
tained it  so  imperceptibly,  that  no  one  ever 
thought  of  the  fact ;  and  even  Lady  Ogilvie  did 
not  speak  of  her  until  she  appeared,  suddenly  and 
silently,  to  lead  Katharine  to  her  sister's  room. 

Mrs.  Pennythorne  had  at  first  shrunk,  both 
in  timidity  and  dislike  from  the  stylish  Mrs. 
Ogilvie,  the  neglectful  daughter  of  whom  she 
had  heard.  But  this  feeling  passed  away  when 
she  saw  how  subdued  Katharine's  manner  was, 
and  with  what  trembling  steps  she  moved  to 
Eleanor's  chamber. 

"And  you  have  tended  her  night  and  day — 
you,  almost  a  stranger !"  said  Katharine ;  "  How 
good  you  are!  while  I — "  She  stopped;  for 
the  remorse  which  had  smitten  her  heart  at 
the  sight  of  her  long-forsaken  mother,  was  re- 
newed when  she  beheld  the  sick,  almost  dying 
girl,  who,  from  the  triple  ties  of  marriage,  kin- 
dred, and  affection,  might  have  claimed  from 
her  a  sister's  care. 

Eleanor  was  sitting  up  in  bed ;  her  arms  ex- 
tended, and  her  eyes — those  once  beautiful,  calm 
eyes — glittering  and  burning  with  fever.  Sha 
began  to  talk  in  quick,  sharp,  ringing  accents. 

"  Ah !  you  have  been  to  fetch  her ;  I  thought 
you  would.  I  could  not  die  without  seeing  Mrs 
Breynton.  Tell  her  she  need  not  fear  meeting 
him — he  w? .  not  come.  Philip  will  not  come — 
never  more — never  more  I" 

"  She  often  talks  in  this  way,"  whispered  Mrs. 
Pennythorne ;  "  and  so  I  am  glad  that  no  one  if 
with  her  except  myself.  I  da  not  know  any 
thing,  but  I  feel  sure  that  she  and  poor  Mr. 
Wychnor-— " 

Low  as  the  tone  was,  the  words  reached  El- 
eanor's ear.  She  turned  quickly  round. 


THE  OGILVIES. 


12J 


11  What !  do  you  speak  about  him,  Mrs.  Breyn- 
ton  ? — for  I  know  you  are  Mrs.  Breynton,  though 
you  look  different — younger,  and  so  beautiful! 
Ah!  perhaps  you  have  died,  and  so  become  a 
spirit  like  my  mother !  But  did  you  not  pray 
her  to  forgive  you  for  breaking  her  poor  child's 
heart  ?  We  will  not  talk  about  it.  Still,  it  was 
cruel  of  you  to  part  my  Philip  from  me." 

"  Philip  again  !"  said  Katharine,  softly.  "  Ah  ! 
I  see  it  all  now — I  guessed  it  long  Is  it  even 
so  with  her,  too?  Eleanor,  dearest!"  And 
she  spoke  very  tenderly. 

"  Who  calls  me  dearest  ?  He  used,  once,  but 
he  will  never  call  me  so  again !  She  kept  me 
from  him  until  his  love  has  changed.  I  shall 
never  be  Philip's  wife  now.  It  is  all  your  work, 
Mrs.  Breynton!" 

"  I  am  not  Mrs.  Breynton.  I  am  Katharine — 
your  sister." 

"  Are  you  ?  No,  no !  Katharine  is  Hugh's 
wife — loving  and  happy."  Katharine  drooped 
her  head  shudderingly.  "  She  would  not  come 
here — we  have  only  sorrow  here.  But  you 
must,  not  let  her  know — no  living  soul  must 
know  what  Philip  said  that  night — that  there 
was  a  gulf,  a  bar  between  us.  Let  me  whisper 
it,  lest  the  world  might  hear,  and  call  him  cruel. 
But  he  is  not  cruel — he  is  all-good.  Listen !" — 
and  she  placed  her  lip  to  Katharine's  ear :  "  per- 
haps some  one  loved  him  better  than  he  thought 
I  did,  and  he  is  married— married  !" 

"Oh,  no,  indeed,  Miss  Ogilvie!"  broke  in 
Mrs.  Pennythbrne,  with  tears  in  her  eyes ;  "  Mr. 
Wychnor  will  never  marry.  He  told  me  so  one 
day — the  very  day  I  brought  you  his  letter." 

"Letter — his  letter!  Ah!  I  remember  every 
word — every  word;"  and  with  an  accent  of 
thrilling  sorrow  she  repeated,  line  by  line,  Phil- 
ip 3  iast  farewell.  "  And  then — I  forget  all  after- 
ward— it  is  darkness— darkness !"  she  moaned, 
while  her  head  drooped  on  her  bosom,  and  her 
eyes  closed. 

Mrs.  Pennythorne  laid  her  down  on  the  pillow, 
parted  the  disheveled  hair,  and  bathed  her  brow 
with  water.  "What  a  gentle,  skillful  nurse 
you  are !"  said  Katharine,  who.  a  stranger  to 
scenes  like  this,  was  trembling  with  alarm  and 
agitation. 

"I  am  used  to  it,"  was  the  meek,  sad  reply, 
as  she  bent  over  her  charge. 

There  was  a  few  minutes'  silence,  and  then 
Eleanor  opened  her  eyes,  and  regarded  wistfully 
her  tender  nurse. 

"  I  do  not  know  you,  but  you  are  very  kind  to 
me.  Perhaps  my  mother  has  sent  you.  I  hear 
her  calling  me  every  hour,  but  I  can  not  go. 
Tell  her  I  can  not !  I  must  not  die  until — until 
— what  was  it  that  I  had  to  do?"  Her  eyes 
wandered  restlessly,  and  she  put  her  hand  to  her 
brow.  "  My  head  is  wild  !  I  can  not  remember 
any  thing !  'Help  me !  do  help  me  !"  And  her 
piteous  gaze  was  lifted  mournfully  to  Mrs.  Pen- 
Kythorne.  "  Tell  me  what  it  is  that  I  have  to 
do  before  I  die." 

"Repeat  his  name;  she  will  hear  that," 
whispered  Katharine,  regarding  her  sister  with 
a  desp  sympathy  unfelt  before, 

"Shall  we  send  for  any  one. — for  Philip?" 
gently  asked  Mrs.  Pennythorne. 

"  Philip  !  Why  do  you  speak  about  Philip  ? 
I  dared  not  even  utter  his  name ;  Mrs.  Breyntou 
would  not  let  mo.  Ah,  that  is  it !"  and  a  (J  iUri- 


ous  light  shone  in  her  face.  "  I  must  see  Mrs. 
Breynton ;  I  must  tell  her  to  forgive  my  Philip  1 
She  has  had  her  will,  for  we  shall  never  marry 
— never  see  one  another  any  more." 

She  ceased  a  moment,  and  then  rose  wildly 
from  her  couch. 

"You  are  cruel;  you  will  not  fetch  Mrs. 
Breynton  :  and  until  I  know  she  will  forgive  him, 
I  can  not  die.  I  am  weary — so  weary ! — and 
you  will  not  let  me  go  to  my  mother  !  Do  you 
know" — and  she  caught  hold  of  Mrs.  Penny- 
thorne's  dress — "I  see  her  standing  waiting  for 
me — ther™, !  there!" 

Katharine  started,  for  there  seemed  a  strange 
reality  in  the  fantasy  which  directed  Eleanor's 
fixed  eyes  and  lifted  finger. 

"The  room  is  filled  with  them!"  continued 
the  delirious  girl.  "  They  come  around  me  by 
night  and  by  day — some  dead  faces,  some  living ; 
but  they  are  all  sad — like  yours.  Philip's  is 
there  too  sometimes — smiling  so  tenderly,  as  he 
used  to  do  in  the  dear  old  palace-garden.  See ! 
he  is  looking  on  me  now !  Ah,  Philip,  you  did 
love  me  once — you  do  love  me — I  read  it  in  your 
eyes  ;  but  you  dare  not  speak.  Then  I  must ! 
You  see,  dear  Philip,  I  am  calm," — and  her 
voice  sank  almost  to  its  natural  tones — "  as  calm 
as  I  was  that  day  you  called  me  your  strength, 
your  comfort.  Tell  me,  then,  what  is  this  bar 
between  us — when  I  am  rich,  when  I  love  you, 
only  you,  my  Philip,  my  own  Philip !"  She 
paused,  but  after  a  few  moments'  silence,  broke 
once  more  into  vague,  disconnected  ravings. 

Katharine  waited  until  the  shrill  tones  ceased, 
and  her  sister  fell  into  the  heavy  slumber  which 
foretold  the  near  approach  of  the  crisis.  Then 
she  drew  Mrs.  Pennythorne  aside. 

"  Tell  me — you  know  more  than  I — is  there 
any  hope?" 

There  was  hope,  for  youth  can  withstand  so 
much ;  with  this  sleep  the  delirium  might  pass 
away,  and  the  fever  be  conquered.  • 

"  And  then  she  will  wake — wake  to  what  ? 
Death  might  be  better  than  life !  it  is  so  some- 
times," muttered  Katharine  to  herself. 

Mrs.  Pennythorne  spoke  comfortingly — she 
looked  on  the  pale,  excited  face  of  the  young 
wife,  and  forgave  all  her  imagined  errors.  Kath- 
arine sat  in  deep  thought  without  making  any 
answer — perhaps  she  did  not  even  hear.  At 
last  she  said,  suddenly  and  decisively — 

"  Mrs.  Peanythorne,  you  have  a  woman's 
heart,  and  so  have  I — we  shall  understand  one 
another.  Those  strange  words  which  poor 
Eleanor  has  uttered,  you  will  keep  sacred ;  and 
I  must  do  more,  I  must  act.  Philip  Wychnor  is 
your  friend :  tell  me  all  you  know  about  him." 

And  once  more  Mrs.  Pennythorne's  grateful 
and  affectionate  tongue  dwelt  on  the  history  of 
Philip's  goodness.  Then,  most  glad  to  relieve 
her  simple  heart  from  a  secret  that  weighed 
heavily  upon  it,  she  related  all  she  knew  about 
the  letter,  which  had  made  her  the  unconscious 
messenger  of  so  much  evil. 

"  I  did  not  notice  then,  but  I  remember  now, 
how  earnestly  he  spoke,  and  how  unhappy  he 
seemed.  I  have  no  right  to  say  a  word  on  this 
subject,  but  I  do  feel  toward  Philip  Wychnor  as 
though  he  were  my  own  son.  I  think  he  loves 
that  sweet  sister  of  yours.  I  am  old,  and  almost 
past  the  memory  oi  these  things;  yet  I  would 
like  to  see  my  dear  Mr.  Wychnor  happy,  and 


122 


THE  OGILVIES. 


Miss  Ogilvie  toj,  so  good  and  gentle  as  she  is. 
The  moment  I  sa  «v-  her  I  felt  sure  of  his  loving 
her— he  could  not  help  it.  It  is  a  sorrowful 
world,"  continued  she.  siller  waiting  awhile  for 
the  answer,  which  Mrs.  Ogilvie,  absorbed  in 
thought,  withheld,  "yet  if  one  cou  d  but  make 
these  two  young  creatures  happy — " 

"It  shall  be — I  will  do  it!"  cried  Katharine. 
"And  oh!"  she  said  softly  to  herself,  as  Mrs. 
Penny thorne  glided  away  at  the  physician's 
summons,  "J  I,  erring,  heart- withered,  mad- 
dened as  I  am,  can  leave  behind  me  a  little 
peace,  Jttle  happiness,  which  without  me  per- 
chanct  nad  not  been — surely  it  will  prove  some 
atonement.  If  I  have  sinned,  though  only  in 
thought,  against  my  husband,  I  may  bring  joy 
to  the*  sister  he  loves ;  and  then  I  shall  •  pass 
away  from  all,  and  my  misery  will  cumber  the 
earth  no  more." 

With  Katharine,  to  will  was  to  act.  She  sat 
down  and  wrote  to  Mrs.  Breynton,  entreating, 
or  rather  commanding  —  for  her  earnestness 
seemed  almost  like  a  command — that  she  would 
come  at  once  to  Summerwood.  Then  she  wrote 
with  a  swift  though  trembling  hand  a  few  lines 
— to  Paul  Lynedon !  After  she  had  finished,  she 
stood  irresolute — but  only  for  a  moment.  She 
sealed  the  letter,  and  laid  it  with  the  other. 

"  Yes,  it  shall  go— I  can  trust  him — him  only. 
He  will  do  my  will,  whatever  it  be,"  and  a 
bitter  though  triumphant  smile  curved  her  lips. 
"  And  he  will  be  silent  too,  no  fear !  This  my 
act  might  seem  strange  to  the  world — perhaps 
to  him ;  but  what  matter,  when  the  end  comes  ? 
and  it  is  perhaps  near — very  near.  I  pray  it 
may  be  so !"  Her  voice  sank  to  an  inaudible 
whisper ;  scarce  a  breath ;  for  even  then,  as  if 
in  answer  to  that  awful  prayer,  she  felt  the  sharp 
death-warning  dart  through  her  heart. 

In  the  early  morning,  Paul  Lynedon  came. 
Katharine  knew  he  would;  and  had  risen  long 
before  the  rest  of  the  wearied  and  anxious  house- 
hold. She  was  walking  in  the  avenue  when  his 
panting  horse  approached ;  he  leaped  from  it 
with  a  look  of  the  wildest  joy. 

"  You  sent  for  me :  how  good,  how  kind ! 
What  thanks  can  I  give  you,  dear  Mrs.  Ogilvie 
— Katharine  ?" 

He  uttered  softly,  almost  whisperingly,  the 
long-unspoken  word.  She  started,  and  her  head 
was  lifted  in  proud  reproof:  "Katharine !  You 
are  thinking,  Mr.  Lynedon,  of  the  time  when 
you  were  here  last.  But  the  circumstance  is 
excusable." 

Paul  drew  back.  "  Pardon  me  :  I  had  forgot- 
ted  all,  as  you  say — all  but  that  happy  time. 
Would  to  heaven  it  could  come  again,  and  you 
were  once  more  that  dear  child  who — " 

"A  child — you  thought  me  a  child !"  cried 
Katharine,  with  that  impulse  which  in  the  early 
days  of  this  second  meeting  had  made  her  very 
love  half  vengeance ;  and  even  now  caused  her, 
as  it  were,  to  set  herself  against  herself,  the 
slighted  girl  against  the  worshiped  woman. 

"  I  thought — shall  I  tell  you  what  I  thought  you 
—what  I  think  you?"  said  Lynedon,  eagerly. 

"No!"     The  word  reined  him  in  his  mad 
career,  and  he  stood  mute.     And  she  who  once,  j 
nay  even  now,  would  have  died  rather  than  that 
he  should  suffer  a  single  pang,  knew  that  one  , 
word  of  hers  would  have  given  him  peace — yet 
•he  mmt  not  she  dared  not,  utter  it. 


"Mr.  Lynedon" — the  calm,  cold  tone  struck 
him  like  an  arrow — "  shall  we  talk  of  the  reason 
which  made  me  trespass  on  your  kindness?" 
He  bowed,  and  suffered  her  to  put  her  arm 
through  his,  while  they  paced  up  and  down  the 
walk. 

Katharine  went  on.  "There  is  something 
very  near  my  heart  in  which  I  can  trust  no 
friend"  she  laid  the  faintest  emphasis  on  the 
word,  "  no  friend  but  you.  Will  you — asking  nq 
questions,  seeking  no  explanations — do  it  for 
me?" 

"Will  I?— you  know  I  will!"  And  again 
there  came  a  brightness  to  his  face. 

"  I  want  you  to  seek  for  a  friend  of  yours,  or 
an  acquaintance  at  least — Philip  Wychnor.  He 
is  gone  a  journey :  whither  I  know  not,  and 
have  no  means  of  knowing,  save  through  you. 
Find  him  bring  him  hither,  on  what  excuse  you 
will :  or  perhaps — the  truth  is  always  best — I 
will  write,  and  you  shall  bear  the  letter." 

"This  is  all  mystery,  I  can  not  fathom  it," 
said  Paul,  uneasily ;  his  jealous  mind  at  once 
forming  the  wildest  and  most  torturing  conclu- 
sions. "  Only  tell  me— " 

"  I  will  tell  you  nothing  :  do  this,  I  pray  you ; 
do  it  for  me."  And  Katharine's  eagerness  made 
her  tone  so  tremulous,  so  winning  in  its  en- 
treaty, that  Paul  Lynedon  could  have  fallen  at 
her  feet. 

"I  promise,"  said  he.  "Heaven  knows  I 
would  plunge  a  knife  into  my  very  heart  if  you 
bade  me,"  he  added,  speaking  low  and  hurriedly. 

As  low,  but  almost  fearful  in  its  firmness,  was 
Katharine's  reply :  "I  might,  but  I  would  thrust 
it  into  my  own  heart  next." 

He  looked  at  her  astonished,  but  her  face  was 
turned  away.  The  next  moment  she  had  sprung 
forward  to  meet  her  father,  who  crossed  their 
path  on  his  early  morning  walk. 

"  You  rode  over  to  inquire  for  my  poor  niece  ?" 
said  Sir  Robert.  "How  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Lyne- 
don!  you  must  stay  and  breakfast  with  us 
Katharine!" 

But  Katharine  had  already  glided  away. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

Art  thou  already  weary  of  the  way  ? 

Thou,  who  hast  yet  but  half  the  way  gone  o'er  :— 
Get  up  and  lift  thy  burthen ! 

****** 
Say  thou  not  sadly,  "  Never,"  and  "  No  more ;" 

But  from  thy  lips  banish  those  falsest  words : 
While  life  remains,  that  which  was  thine  before 
Again  may  be  thine ;  in  Time's  storehouse  lie 

Days,  hours,  and  moments  that  have  unknown  hoards 
Of  joy,  as  well  as  sorrow :  passing  by, 
Smiles  come  with  tears. 

FRANCES  ANNE  BUTLER. 

THERE  is  scarce  a  town  in  England  more 
suggestive  of  speculation  upon  what  our  good 
friend  David  Drysdale  would  have  entitled  "  the 
noble  science  of  man,"  than  that  turnpike  gate 
on  the  European  highway — Dover.  Not  that 
one  need  pause  to  enumerate  from  Pinnoek  or 
Goldsmith  how  many  kings  "landed  at  Dover," 
or-"  set  sail  from  Dover."  The  present  is  quite 
fruitful  enough  to  set  aside  the  past.  Think  of 
the  multitudes  of  small  historiettes  worked  out 
here  :  how  that  among  the  throng  <hat  from 
year  to  year  pass  by,  are  all  ranks  and  charac- 
ters— fugitive  royalty  •  arrant  nobility  j  the  regi- 


THE  OGILVIES. 


123 


wien£  departing,  its  mournful  fragments  return- 
ed 5  or,  to  descend  to  individuals — debtor  flying 
creditor;  married  lovers  speeding  to  happiness 
and  honeymoon ;  wretched  and  erring  ones, 
speeding  faster  still  into  what  must  be  in  the 
end  a  miserable  doom ;  happy  men  seeking 
pleasure;  sick-hearted,  hopeless  men,  rushing 
any  where  for  oblivion.  And  here  we  pause, 
for  with  such  an  one  we  have  to  do. 

Philip  Wychnor  had  reached  Dover  on  his 
way  to  the  Continent,  He  would  have  simply 
passed  through  it,  longing  for  the  moment  when 
he  should  set  his  last  footstep — at  least,  the  last 
ibr  many  years,  on  English  shores.  But  fate, 
the  faie  which  one  less  pious-hearted  would 
have  angrily  cursed,  detained  him  for  many 
days.  He  spent  them  restlessly  enough,  patient 
as  he  was ;  in  his  daily  toil  of  literary  necessity 
— alas  for  the  poor  author !  and  in  evening  wan- 
derings about  the  country.  Beauty  he  found— 
for  a  poet's  mind  finds  beauty  every  where — 
but  yet  he  could  not  realize  it.  He  felt  upon 
him  the  commencement  of  that  doom,  to  roam 
the  wide  -world,  "  finding  no  rest  for  the  sole  of 
his  foot." 

The  reviving  from  a  great  woe  is  sometimes 
worse  than  the  woe  itself.  The  world  looks  so 
blank,  so  dreary ;  we  see  it  once  more ;  our  dull 
eyes  even  acknowledge  its  glory ;  but  it  is  like 
looking  on  a  beautiful  corse  from  whence  the 
life  is  gone.  Earth  smiles,  Heaven  smiles — 
just  as  heretofore ;  but  the  smile  resembles  that 
on  a  face  once  loved,  which  meets  us  vacantly, 
the  heart  beneath  it  shining  out  no  longer.  We 
do  not  weep ;  perhaps  we  scarcely  suffer :  we 
are  quite  calm,  gentle,  patient;  all  goes  on 
with  us  as  before ;  we  walk  through  the  beaten 
path  of  our  daily  existence,  but  the  light  is  gone 
from  the. world;  the  present  seems  inane  and 
dim  ;  and  oh,  merciful  God !  we  have  no  future 
and  no  past !  Not  here  !  but  we  know  we  have 
hereafter.  And  then  we  see  enfolding  us  an 
arm  of  comfort  and  strength,  and  hear  the  voice 
—"I  AM!" 

"  Can  I  suffice  for  heaven  and  not  for  earth  ?" 

So  Philip  felt  when  he  sat  alone  in  the  twi- 
light on  the  cliff  hallowed  by  tradition  as  "  Shak- 
speare's."  The  hour  was  so  late  that  all  sea- 
side idlers  had  long  departed,  and  the  place 
seemed  as  lonely  and  dreary  as  in  the  olden 
time  of  Shakspeare,  Lear,  and  poesy.  The  sea 
sang  hollowly,  far  below;  and  when  the  last 
sunset  tinge  had  faded  behind  the  Downs,  they 
assumed  a  robe  of  mist,  spectral  and  mysterious. 
Gradually  it  folded  itself  round  the  cliff,  likewise 
hiding  the  sea  beneath ;  so  that  the  melancholy 
voice  arose  from  waters  that  were  heard,  not 
seen. 

Driven  by  that  irresistible  impulse  which 
seizes  most  men  on  such  a  spot  of  danger — so 
much  so,  that  the  ancients  believed  a  demon 
stood  on  the  brink  of  each  abyss — tempted,  as 
by  the  great  Tempter  of  old,  "Cast  thyself 
down !"  Philip  crept  to  the  utmost  verge  of  the 
oliff.  Unwittingly,  and  fitfully  there  danced 
through  his  brain  the  poet's  tale  which  had 
made  the  spot  renowned — he  thought  of  blind 
Gloster,  hunted  by  fate  into  that  last  plunge 
which  would  end  all.  He  conjured  the  old 
man's  spirit  into  his  own,  pictured  what  his 
thoughts  must  be,  what  must  be  the  thoughts 


of  any  man  sick  of  life — looking  curiously,  de- 
siringly,  into  the  awful  mystery  beyond — so  near 
that  one  movement  of  limb  would  make  it  a 
reality. 

Suddenly  he  remembered  how  in  that  man  he 
had  pictured  himself. 

The  conviction — horrible,  yet  full  of  a  daring 
pride,  a  delicious,  alluring  awe — burst  upon  him, 
that  he  held  his  soul  as  it  were  by  a  thread; 
that  he  was  master  of  his  own  destiny :  one  step, 
and  he  might  pass  from  the  world's  tortures, 
to— where  ? 

"My  life  is  in  my  hand,"  he  muttered  in  the 
words  of  one  sorely  tried  of  old — "  My  life  is  in 
my  hand,  yet  I  do  not  forget  thy  law!" 

Shuddering,  he  drew  back  a  few  paces  from 
the  abyss,  recoiling  in  horror  from  the  phantom 
which  he  had  only  seen  afar  off.  But  he  felt 
that  to  his  latest  day  that  hour's  sensation  would 
teach  him  compassion  for  those  goaded  on  by 
life's  torments  to  clasp  the  specter  as  a  bride. 
And  while  he  shrank  fearfully  from  the  crime, 
only  thought  of  in  possibility,  the  revulsion  of 
his  soul  softened  it  from  its  dull  dreariness  into 
a  sorrow,  that,  but  for  his  strong  manhood,  would 
have  melted  in  tears.  He  was  glad — thankful 
for  any  sense— even  the  sense  of  suffering.  He 
looked  up  at  the  stars  which  were  beginning  to 
shine  through  the  gloomy  night,  and  prayed 
Heaven  to  keep  him  free  from  sin,  that  he  might 
endure  with  a  patient  heart  through  life  unto  its 
ending. 

Then  he  went  homeward,  quiet  and  composed. 
He  sought  to  feel  as  though  he  belonged  *to  the 
world.  Passing  through  the  town,  he  tried  to 
look  around  him,  and  feel  an  interest  in  the 
various  ta  king  and  laughing  groups,  the  street 
music,  the  cheerful  shops ;  but  it  was  in  vain. 
He,  in  his  lonely  dreariness,  seemed  as  different, 
placed  as  far  from  his  brethren  among  men,  as 
the  gloomy  cliffs  from  the  gay  lighted  street 
which  they  overhung. 

When  he  reached  home,  he  learned  there  was 
a  gentleman  awaiting  him.  Entering,  he  saw 
— Paul  Lynedon. 

Had  the  visitant  been  a  ghost  from  the  dead, 
a  demon  returned  to  the  upper  world,  he  could 
not  have  raised  more  fearful  passions  in  Philip 
Wychnor's  breast.  Anguish,  terror,  even  a 
thrill  of  fierce  hatred,  overwhelmed  him.  He 
sprang  toward  Lynedon,  scarcely  conscious  of 
what  he  did,  and  then  sank  into  a  chair,  utterly 
speechless. 

"I  have  startled  you,  I  see.  I  ought  to  apol 
ogize,"  said  Lynedon,  gently  and  courteously, 
though  somewhat  annoyed  at  this  rather  strange 
reception.  But  Paul  was  a  man  who  would 
have  shown  dignified  civility  to  his  executioner 
on  the  scaffold. 

Philip  Wychnor  answered  him  not  a  word. 

"  Perhaps  this  visit  is  ill-timed — an  intrusion. 
But  I  need  only  mention  your  friends  and  mine 
— the  Ogilvies." 

Philip  started  up  in  an  agony.  "  For  God's 
sake,  Mr.  Lynedon,  tell  me  what  you  have  to 
say  without  mentioning  any  living  soul.  I  am 
a  man  who  have  suffered  much.  How  or  why, 
matters  not.  I  wish  to  leave  England,  forget 
all  friends,  break  all  ties,  for  a  season.  Why 
must  I  be  tortured  any  more  ?" 

Lynedon  opened  his  eyes  with  extreme  but 
still  most  polite  astonishment. 


124 


THE  OGILVIES. 


"  Pardon  me,  this  can  be  nothing— mark  me, 
I  sav  it  is  nothing— to  you,"  Philip  continued, 
trying  to  calm  himself  with  remembering  to 
whom  he  spoke.  "  I  shall  forget  it  myself  soon. 
I  pray  you  do  the  same  !  Will  you  sit  ?" 

He  motioned  to  a  chair,  but  stood  himself, 
loaning  against  the  wall. 

"  This  is  a  strange  welcome  from  an  acquaint- 
ance— I  would  fain  have  said  a  friend,"  observed 
Lynedon,  becoming  suspicious  and  half  angry. 
"  But  I  respect  you.  •  Mr.  Wychnor,  both  for 
your  own  sake  and  heri,  whose  messenger  I 
am."  And  he  presented  Mrs.  Ogilvie's  letter. 

Annoyed  though  he  was,  .Paul  Lynedon  was 
yet  kind-hearted,  and  a  gentleman.  Conquer- 
ing at  once  his  natural  curiosity,  and  the  vague 
jealousy  that  would  rise  up  at  the  strange  mys- 
tery between  Philip  and  Katharine,  he  walked 
to  the  open  window  and  contemplated  the  stars ; 
so  that,  of  whatever  news  he  had  been  the  un- 
lucky bearer,  his  companion  might  learn  them 
unobserved.  But  he  expected  not  to  hear  the 
cry — almost  like  a  woman's  agony — which  broke 
from  Philip  Wychnor.  It  brought  him  at  once 
to  the  young  man's  side. 

"  You  are  ill !     What  can  I  do  ?" 

Philip  caught  his  arm  wildly.  "  You  know — 
tell  me  the  truth,  on  your  soul — you  know  what 
this  letter  contains?" 

"  On  my  soul,  I  do  not !"  said  Paul,  earnestly ; 
for  he  was  awed  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  What !  not  that  she  is  ill— dying  ?" 

"Dying!"  cried  Lynedon  vehemently,  his 
thoughts  recurring  to  the  only  woman  who  ever 
occupied  them  now.  But  he  recollected  himself 
it  once  :  No,  you  mistake,  it  is  Miss  Ogilvie 
who  is  ill." 

Philip  looked  in  his  face  with  an  eager,  half- 
eredulous  stare.  "  You  say  so  calmly !  You 
eome  here,  when — " 

Paul  began  to  guess  dimly  at  the  truth — at 
least  some  part  of  it.  He  answered,  kindly, 
"  I  regret  Miss  Ogilvie's  illness  much ;  she  is 
a  gentle  creature,  and  I  am  happy  to  call  her 
Friend,  but — " 

The  careless  tone  and  voice  struck  Philip 
with  conviction  at  once:  "I  see  it  all  now — 
all !  Oh,  what  have  I  done  ?  May  God  forgive 
ane!" 

He  laid  his  head  on  the  table,  and  burst  inta 
(i  passion  of  tears. 

Paul  was  touched.  Another  time  he  might 
have  mocked  at  such  weakness ;  but  now  his 
own  heart  taught  him  to  look  with  compassion, 
almost  awe,  on  another  man's  misery.  He  said, 
gently  and  delicately,  "  You  and  I,  and  all  her 
friends,  must  rejoice  that  the  crisis  is  past :  she 
will  not  die." 

There  was  no  answer,  and  Lynedon  thought 
the  best  thing  he  could  do  was  to  walk  to  the 
window  again.  He  remained  there  until  he  felt 
a  hand  on  his.  It  was  Philip  Wychnor's.  His 
face  was  white  as  death,  but  it  wore  a  calmness 
almost  like  joy. 

"You  will  pardon  all  this,  Lynedon?" 

"My  dear  fellow" — and  Paul  returned  the 
cordial  grasp  — "  don't  speak  of  it.  Tm  sure  I 
am  very  sorry — that  is,  glad — but  being  quite 
in  the  dark,  might  I,-" 

"  Do  not  ask  me  any  thing — do  not  think  any 
thing.  One  day  you  may  know  all." 

"  Well,  as  you  like  :  all  I  know  now  is,  that 


Mrs.  Ogilvie  wished  to  see  you ;  that  I  sough! 
you  by  her  desire." 

"  God  bless  you  and  her  !"  cried  Philip. 

The  blood  rushed  to  Lynedon's  brow.  He 
felt  like  a  demon  in  the  presence  of  a  saint. 

"You  will  be  kind  and  leave  me  now,"  pur- 
sued Philip.  "  My  brain  is  strangely  bewilder- 
ed — half  with  misery,  half  with  joy — but  I  feel 
toward  you  deeply,  thankfully.  We  shall  meet 
again,  and  be  friends  ?" 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Paul,  warmly. 

Wychnor  followed  him  to  the  door.  As  thej 
said  adieu,  he  looked  repentantly,  almost  affec- 
tionately, into  the  face  which  had  once  seemed 
to  him  like  that  of  a  haunting  fiend. 

"  Forgive  me  once  more.  You  know  not 
what  I  have  endured.  Oh,  Lynedon,  you  are  a 
man  like  me — you  have  loved,  or  you  may  love 
— then  remember  this :  Never  conceal  aught, 
as  you  value  your  life's  peace  !  never,  for  one 
moment,  deceive  yourself  or  her!" 

Lynedon  sprang  from  the  door :  the  warning 
knelled  on  his  ear  like  a  judgment-doom !  He 
fled  from  its  sound,  but  its  echo  followed  him : 
he  dulled  it  with  wine,  but  it  rose  up  again.  At 
last  he  clutched  it  as  one  clutches  in  despair 
some  ever-pursuing  horror.  He  said  to  himself, 
that  not  for  earth,  heaven,  or  hell,  would  he 
give  up  Katharine  Ogilvie  ! 


CHAPTER  L. 

Thou  hast  named  a  name 

Which  to  my  conscience  gives  such  secret  pangs  . 
—Yea,  there  is  nothing  that  I  would  not  do 
In  reparation  of  the  wrong  I've  done  him. 

JOANNA  BAILLIE. 

Remorse,  if  proud  and  gloomy- 
It  is  a  poison- tree,  that,  pierced  to  the  utmost, 
Weeps  only  tears  of  poison.  COLERIDGE. 

MRS.  BREYNTON  was  sitting  in  her  breakfast- 
room — or  rather  moving  restlessly  about  im- 
patient of  her  solitude — when  she  heard  the 
tidings  of  Eleanor's  danger.  The  shock  fell 
upon  her  with  overwhelming  suddenness.  Elea- 
nor's absence  had  revealed  how  the  gentle  girl 
had  twined  herself  round  this  aged  heart,  bring- 
ing to  it  life  and  youth  and  warmth  unknown 
before.  The  first  few  days  of  her  loneliness, 
Mrs.  Breynton  had  chafed  and  fumed.  Nay, 
but  for  her  pride,  she  would,  perchance,  have 
summoned  Eleanor  again  to  her  side.  As  it 
was,  she  had  time  to  discover  how  strong  was 
this  second  affection — almost  rivaling  the  one 
pre-eminent  feeling,  her  love  for  her  nephew 
She  now  began  to  desire  more  anxiously  than 
ever  the  working  out  of  her  long  projected 
scheme,  which,  in  making  Eleanor  Philip's 
wife,  should  bind  both  ties  in  one. 

And  then  came  the  letter  of  Katharine  Ogilvie, 
bearing  tidings  which  threatened  ruin  alike  to 
her  worldly  schemes,  her  planning  ambition,  her 
long-suppressed  affections  which  in  old  age  had 
risen  up  so  strong.  Mrs.  Breynton  was  bewil- 
dered— grief,  fear,  remorse,  wrung  her  heart  by 
turns.  Again  and  again  she  read  the  letter 
it  seemed  to  grow  more  and  more  confused. 
She  was  conscious  of  but  one  impulse — that  she 
must  that  instant  go  to  Summerwood. 

She  summoned  the  waiting-woman,  who  had 
grown  old  in  her  serv'ce,  and  bade  her  prepare 


THE  OGILVIES. 


125 


tor  the  sudden  journey.  When  Davis  broke  out 
»i  loud  remonstrances,  she  was  silenced  by  a 
look — not  commanding,  as  of  old,  but  piteously 
weak  and  imploring. 

"Do  not  hinder  me,  good  Davis.  She  will 
die  before  I  reach  her.  My  dear  Eleanor ! — 
poor  Isabel's  child !  May  God  forgive  me  if  I 
did  her  wrong !"  she  said,  hoarsely.  And  Da- 
vis, though  scarcely  understanding  her  broken 
words,  grew  terrified  at  the  change  which  had 
come  over  the  dean's  widow. 

"  Let  me  go  too,  dear  mistress,"  sobbed  the 
faitnful  creature.  "Let  me  go,  that  I  may  be 
with  you  in  your  trouble,  and  see  poor  dear  Miss 
Eleanor  once  more." 

Mrs.  Breynton  passively  assented ;  and  the 
two  aged  women,  mistress  and  maid,  traveled 
all  night,  scarcely  exchanging  a  word  until  they 
reached  Summerwood. 

Katharine  met  Mrs.  Breynton  at  the  door. 

She  had  often 'heard  Hugh  jestingly  describe 
the  stately,  stern-featured,  black-robed  widow 
of  the  dean ;  but  she  saw  only  a  bent,  haggard, 
and  aged  woman,  who,  clinging  to  her  servant's 
arm,  seemed  to  tremble  with  apprehension  ere 
she  crossed  the  threshold.  Katharine  stepped 
forward  quickly. 

"  Will  you  lean  on  me,  Mrs.  Breynton  ?  I  am 
Katharine  Ogilvie." 

Mrs.  Breynton's  hand  seized  her  arm.  "  Is 
she — "  And  the  eager  eyes  alone  continued 
the  mute  question. 

"  She  lives  still.     She  may  live." 

"  Thank  God  !"  Never,  during  her  lifetime, 
bad  Mrs.  Breynton  breathed  so  deep,  so  solemn  a 
thanksgiving.  She  staggered  to  a  seat ;  and  for 
the  first  time  for  many  years  the  old  servant 
saw  her  mistress  weep. 

It  was  some  hours  before  Mrs.  Breynton  was 
imffered  to  enter  Eleanor's  chamber.  Then 
Katharine  led  her  in  for  a  few  moments  only,  to 
look  on  the  sick  girl  as  she  slept. 

The  crisis  had  passed,  and  Eleanor  lay  calm, 
though  scarcely  breathing.  In  her  pale,  wasted 
face — round  which  the  close  cap  was  tied — there 
was  a  likeness  to  one,  which  Mrs.  Breynton  had 
last  seen  when  she  stood  beside  the  orphan 
daughter,  to  take  a  farewell  look  of  the  dead. 
The  resemblance  struck  her  now  with  a  vain 
repentance.  She  fell  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

"Isabel — Isabel  Morton!"  she  cried,  "your 
life  was  darkened  by  me  and  mine.  Heaven 
forgive  us  for  the  wrong,  which  ended  not  with 
the  mother,  but  passed  on  to  the  child !  Elea- 
nor ! — my  sweet,  meek  Eleanor  !  live — only 
jive — and  I  will  confess  all— atone  for  all!" 

She  seemed  not  to  notice  the  presence  of 
another,  but  Katharine's  ear  caught  every  word. 
In  a  few  minutes,  she  had  led  Mrs.  Breynton 
from  the  chamber  of  the  yet  sleeping  girl.  Then 
she  spoke  :  in  the  low,  firm  tone  by  which  Kath- 
arine, when  she  willed,  could  rule  all  minds 
weaker  than  her  own — 

"Mrs.  Breynton,  I  am  almost  a  stranger  to 
you ;  but  I  have  a  right  to  speak,  for  Eleanor  is 
my  sister,  and  you  hold  her  happiness  in  your 
hands.  How,  or  why,  this  is,  I  know  not,  and 
week  not  to  know ;  but  thus  much  I  have  learnt 
from  her  delirious  ravings — that  she  and  your 
nephew,  Philip  Wychnor,  have  loved  one  an- 
other for  many  years,  and  that  you  stood  be- 
tween them1" 


The  shadow  of  her  former  freezing  dignity 
came  to  the  mien  of  the  dean's  widow,  but  only 
for  a  moment.  Conscience-stricken,  she  quailed 
before  the  clear  eyes  that  seemed  to  read  her 
heart.  "It  is  all  true — all  true  !"  she  muttered. 

"I  speak  blindly,  for  I  can  not  fathom  this 
mystery,"  Katharine  went  on.  "  What  I  wish 
to  say  is  this  :  that  Philip  Wychnor  has  been 
deceived  in  some  strange  way,  and  his  rash 
words  and  sudden  departure  have  well  nigh 
broken  Eleanor's  heart.  He  is  gone  away — 
abroad,  I  believe." 

"  Gone — oh  no !  Philip  must  not,  shall  not  go,*' 
cried  Mrs.  Breynton :  "  it  is  not  too  late,  even 
now!" 

'  "  No  !  for  whatever  evil  will  has  cast  a  cloud 
between  them,  mine  shall  rend  it.  Mrs.  Breyn 
ton,  this  is  a  cruel,  sorrowful  world,  for  all  who 
love.  Why  did  you  make  it  more  bitter  still 
unto  these  two  ?  But,  with  your  will  or  against 
it,  they  shall  be  happy  now." 

And  Katharine  stood  before  the  cowering,  re- 
morseful woman,  like  an  avenging  angel,  beau- 
tiful and  strong.  She  met  no  opposition ;  not 
even  when  she  spoke  of  Philip  Wychnor' s 
coming,  which  she  daily  expected.  Mrs.  Breyn 
ton's  lips  were  closed  ;  she  knew  the  time  was 
near  when  they  must  reveal  the  wrong  she  had 
worked.  Her  shame  was  heavy  upon  her,  but 
her  suffering  outweighed  it  all.  Soon  as  return- 
ing reason  visited  poor  Eleanor,  Mrs.  Breynton 
prayed  that  she  might  see  her  alone;  but  this 
was  forbidden  by  Katharine.  She  seemed  to  gov- 
vern  the  whole  household,  including  her  chafed 
and  anxious  father  and  the  frightened  Hugh, 
who  had  come  to  Summerwood,  and  lamented 
by  turns  the  illness  of  his  sister,  and  the  loss  of  a 
whole  fortnight's  grouse-shooting. 

In  a  few  days  Eleanor's  convalescence  ad- 
vanced, so  that  her  weak  voice  was  able  to 
utter  connected  words ;  and  her  mild,  grateful 
eyes,  ever  following  Mrs.  Pennythorne,  brought 
tears  of  joy  to  those  of  her  faithful  nurse.  At 
length  Katharine  led  Mrs.  Breynton  to  the  sick- 
chamber.  She  only  staid  to  see  Eleanor  stretch 
out  her  arms,  with  a  faint  cry  of  joy,  while 
the  aged  woman  sank  on  her  knees  beside  her ; 
then  she  closed  the  door  and  went  away. 

It  was  almost  an  hour  before  she  was  sum- 
moned to  her  sister's  room.  Eleanor  lay,  pale, 
indeed,  but  with  such  gladness  in  her  eyes,  such 
a  spiritual  light  suffusing  her  whole  face,  that 
Katharine  marveled  at  her  beauty.  Mrs.  Breyn. 
ton  sat  beside  her,  with  bowed  head  and  droup- 
ing  form,  but  her  hand  was  fast  clasped  in 
Eleanor's  j  and  from  time  to  time  the  girl  turned 
upon  her  a  look  full  of  pity,  forgiveness,  and 
cheer. 

Katharine  advanced.  "  You  need  not  speak, 
dearest ;  I  see  your  face.  All  is  peace  and  hope 
with  you  now !"  Her  voice  failed  a  little,  and 
one  tear  dimmed  her  eyes. 

"It  will  be,  soon — soon."  And  Eleanors 
other  hand  half  unconsciously  closed  over  a  let- 
ter— Philip's  long,  mournful  letter,  which  lay  on 
her  bosom.  She  looked  at  Mrs.  Breynton. 

"No,  no!"  -cried  the  latter,  answering  the 
look.  "  Do  not  send  me  from  you,  my  child !  I 
can  hear  all — will  bear  all.  It  is  just  that  I 
should." 

"  Hush !  hush !  there  is  nothing  to  hear ;"  and 
the  wan  fingers  closed  tighter  over  Mrs.  Breyo- 


126 


THE  OGILVIES. 


ton's.  "Katharine,  you  know  all  now.  She 
told  me  what  you  said.  I  have  only  a  few 
words  more.  Come  closer,  dear,  for  I  am  very 
tired  and  weak." 

Katharine  bent  over  her.  Eleanoi  went  on 
quicker,  though  speaking  very  faintly. 

"  Philip  was  mistaken.  He  heard  a  rumor 
concerning  something  that  happened  years  ago, 
about  one  who  loved  me  once,  or  at  least  imag- 
ined he  did  so.  Thus  far  the  tale  was  true. 
But  the  wooing  was  vain.  I  never  loved  any 
one  save  Philip.  Katharine,  I  must  see  him,  to 
tell  him  so.  If  I  die,  the  knowledge  will  com- 
fort him,  and  give  him  peace.  If  I  live — " 

"  You  will  live — you  must  live,  my  darling  !" 
sobbed  Mrs.  Breynton,  whose  very  heart  was 
penetrated  by  the  sweetness  which  had  glossed 
over  with  such  tender  care  the  tale  of  pardoned 
injuries. 

uYes,  dear  friend,  I  may  live,  please  God! 
to  be  your  child  still,"  was  the  gentle  answer. 
"  But,  Katharine,  bring  Philip  to  me !  It  may 
seem  strange — unwomanly — but  he  loves  me; 
he  did  love  me  through  afl,  and  I  have  no  pride 
in  my  heart — only  love.  Let  him  come,  that  I 
may  take  away  his  sorrow." 

"Be  content,  dear  Eleanor,  we  will  send," 
said  Katharine,  soothingly;  "nay,  to  tell  the 
truth,  he  is  already  sent  for,  not  as  by  your  de- 
sire, but  my  own.  He  will  come  soon. 

"  Ah !  that  makes  me  happy — so  happy ! 
Thank  you,  dear,  kind  sister,"  faintly  answered 
the  sick  girl,  closing  her  eyes,  though  a  glad 
smile  wandered  over  her  lips.  A  moment  after, 
she  said,  dreamily,  "  But  he  is  gone  a  long.  way. 
Whom  did  you  send  ?  Was  it  Hugh  ?" 

"  No,  a  friend  of  his,  and  yours  too."  Katha- 
rine hesitated.  "  In  truth,  it  was  Mr.  Lynedon." 

Eleanor  started  up  wildly.  'Oh,  no,  you 
could  not,  you  dare  not  send  Mr.  Lynedon. 
My  Philip,  my  poor  Philip!  it  will  drive  him 
mad !  And  I  am  not  there  to  tell  the  truth — 
that  I  did  not  listen,  not  one  moment ;  that  all 
the  prayers  on  earth  should  never  have  made 
me  Paul  Lynedon's  wife." 

"Paul  Lynedon's  wife!"  Even  Eleanor's 
face  was  not  more  death-like  than  Katharine's 
when  she  echoed  the  words.  "  Eleanor,  an- 
swer me :  was  it  Paul  Lynedon  who  asked  you 
to  marry  him  ?" 

"  Yes — yes.  I  never  told  human  being — not 
even  Philip :  I  would  not  now,  but  I  am  so 
weak,  and  my  heart  is  breaking.  Katharine, 
think  for  me;  write  to  Philip,  speak  to  him — 
tell  him  you  knew  all,  for  you  were  with  me 
through  that  fatal  time,  that  visit  at  Summer- 
wood." 

"  He  wooed  you  then,  even  then !"  said  Kath- 
arine ;  and  the  words  came  hissingly  through  her 
closed  lips.  "  I  am  glad  you  told  me  this ;  it 
comes  not  too  late.  It  will  save  you — perhaps 
not  you  alone.  Rest,  sister,  restl  I  will  do 
all." 

She  unclasped  the  arm  which  had  folded 
round  her  own  in  frantic  energy,  and  laid  Elea- 
nor down,  exhausted  and  weeping.  Then  she 
glided  from  the  chamber.  In  the  apartment  be- 
yond, Mrs.  Pennythorne  sat  alone ;  from  the  open 
dining-room  door  came  the  voices  of  Sir  Robert 
and  Hugh.  She  could  gain  no  solitude  within 
the  house,  so  fled  wildly  from  it. 

Out,  into  the  dreary,  moonless  autumn  night. 


the  darkness  and  the  rain,  Katharine  passea. 
She  walked  rapidly,  the  bleak  wind  lifting  hex 
hair,  and  piercing  freezingly  to  her  unsheltered 
bosom.  At  the  end  of  the  avenue,  where  Lyne- 
don had  come  bounding  to  her  side,  she  stopped. 

"  He  told  me  a  lie — a  lie  !"  she  cried.  "  He 
deceived  me  then — even  in  those  olden  days  :  he 
has  deceived  me  now.  He  is  false — all  false! 
And  I  have  wrecked  my  peace  on  earth — almost 
my  hope  of  heaven — for  this  mad  love  of  him ! 

"  Paul ! — Paul  Lynedon ! — you  love  me  now 
— I  know  it !  Heart  and  soul,  you  are  mine ! 
But  it  had  been  better  for  you  to  have  torn  out 
that  false  tongue  of  yours  before  it  uttered  that 
lie,  the  last  lie  of  all — before  you  told  me  you 
had  never  wished  to  marry  Eleanor  Ogilvie." 

Ere  long  her  stormy  anger  passed  into  weep- 
ing. "I  wish  to  die!"  she  moaned,  "for  then 
I  should  escape  sin,  and  suffer  no  more  sorrow. 
I  would  have  died  calmly — believing  in  him 
still ;  though  how  dearly  I  loved  him,  I  dared 
not  let  him  know.  But  now  my  faith  is  gone ; 
and  in  the  whole  wide  world  I  can  trust  no  liv- 
ing soul!" 

A  little  longer  this  subdued  wail  of  a  wrecked 
heart  was  wasted  on  the  silent  night ;  and  then 
Katharine  saw  lights  moving  in  the  house.  She 
returned  hastily  thither,  lest  her  absence  should 
have  caused  surprise.  Crossing  the  hall,  she 
met  Sir  Robert  and  Hugh. 

"  Really,  Katharine,  these  late  rambles  in  the 
grounds  are  very  injurious  to  health.  And  you 
hare  no  bonnet!  My  dear  Hugh,  you  should 
take  better  care  of  your  wife,"  observed  the 
baronet,  as  he  ascended  the  stairs. 

"  Take  care  of  Katharine  !  Nay,  I  can't  do 
that.  She's  a  youn<r  filly  that  will  neither  be  led 
nor  driven.  I  have  found  that  out  at  last,"  said 
Hugh,  carelessly. 

Katharine  was  passing  him  by,  but  at  his 
words  she  turned  and  looked  him  in  the  face. 
Her  whole  bearing  expressed  the  most  intense 
and  withering  scorn.  A  strange  contrast  was 
there  between  the  husband  and  wife ;  he,  grown 
awkward  and  heavy,  and  becoming  each  day 
coarser  in  person  as  in  mind — she,  with  her 
ardent  soul  flashing  in  her  eyes  and  dilating 
her  stature,  while  her  slender,  beautiful  form, 
gradually  wasting  away,  made  her  seem  hardly 
like  a  creature  of  this  world. 

"  What  was  that  you  said  ?" 

"  Oh,  nothing — nothing  !"  And  Hugh  shrank 
away,  cowed,  before  her  fixed  gaze.  "  Don't  be 
vexed,  Katharine,  I  only  meant  that  you  were 
not  quite  as  you  used  to  be ;  but  I  suppose  all 
girls  change  when  they  marry." 

"  Those  were  not  the  words.    Tell  the  truth." 

"  What's  the  use,  if  you  know  already  ?"  said 
Hugh,  sulkily.  "  But  don't  keep  me  here,  pray ; 
I'm  going  out." 

She  stood  in  his  path  still. 

"  Stay,  Hugh :  you  said  I  would  neither  be 
led  nor  driven,  and  you  are  right;  I  will  not." 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  want  to  try.  Many  a  hus- 
band might  complain  of  the  little  attention  you 
pay,  but  I  always  take  it  quietly.  Still,  what 
with  your  visiting  and  your  literary  parties,  and 
your  friends — " 

"Hugh,  take  care!"  Katharine  broke  in, 
wildly.  "  Do  not  try  me  too  much.  Speak 
kindly  to  me — let  me  do  as  I  will :  it  can  not 
be  for  long — not  long." 


THE  OGILVIES. 


127 


"  Eh ! — what  ?" — and,  struck  by  her  tone,  he 
came  nearer,  and  gazed  in  her  excited  counte- 
nance with  some  show  of  interest.  "  Poor  little 
Katharine!  you  don't  look  well — you  hardly 
seem  to  know  what  you'rs  saying.  This  anxiety 
about  Nelly  has  been  too  much  tor  you.  There, 
be  quiet !" 

His  words  were  not  without  affection,  though 
it  was  expressed  in  his  own  careless  fashion. 
He  stooped  down  anci  patted  his  wife's  head  with 
his  great  rough  hands. 

The  tone  and  action  smote  Katharine's  heart 
with  a  remorseful  memory  of  olden  days — when 
she  had  known  no  stronger  love  than  that  won 
by  the  unfailing  devotion  of  cousin  Hugh;  The 
thought  drew  her  nearer  to  her  husband.  She 
extended  her  ha'nd. 

"  Forgive  me,  Hugh.  I  might  have  made  you 
happier,  perhaps.  We  were  not  suited  for  one 
another.  We  should  not  have  married." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  Well,  well,  it  is  too  late 
now.  You  must  make  the  best  of  me,  such  as  I 
am,"  said  Hugh,  in  a  tone  half  angry,  half  sor- 
rowful, as  he  turned  away. 

Katharine  caught  his  hand.  J*  Oh,  Hugh — 
good,  kind  cousin  Hugh !  why  did  you  not  let 
me  call  you  by  that  name  all  our  life  through  ? 
I  could  have  loved  you  then." 

"  And  you  don't  now  ?  Well,  I  can't  help 
that;  I  must  learn  not  to  mind  it."  And  he 
sighed  heavily. 

Again  the  wife  felt  a  repentant  pang.  "  Hus- 
band, have  pity ;  my  heart  is  breaking  !  Every 
day  we  seem  to  live  only  to  make  each  other 
miserable." 

"  Well,  we  shall  get  rid  of  one  another  soon 
— for  a  time,  at  least.  Now  Eleanor  is  better, 
I  don't  see  why  I  should  not  go  back  to  the 
grouse-shooting.  I'll  start  to-morrow." 

Moved  by  a  sudden  impulse,  for  which  she 
could  not  then  account,  though  she  afterward 
remembered  it  with  comfort,  Katharine  asked — 
nay  implored  him  to  stay  at  Summerwood ;  but 
he  refused,  somewhat  angrily. 

"  I  never  ask  you  to  give  up  your  pleasures, 
Katharine,  and  I  do  not  see  why  you  should 
interfere  with  mine.  Let  us  each  go  our  own 
way." 

"  Be  it  so,"  answered  the  wife  solemnly.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  last  links  of  human  affection 
and  lingering  duty  were  then  torn  from  her,  and 
she  were  cast  helplessly  upon  the  wide  world  of 
desolation,  misery,  or  sin. 

She  began  to  ascend  the  stairs,  and  Hugh 
went  to  the  hall-door,  seeking  for  his  hat  and 
whip.  Then  he  turned  round  and  hesitated. 

"  You're  not  gone,  Kathatine,  are  you  ?" 

"No,  I  am  here." 

"  Because  we  may  as  well  say  good-by  now, 
for  I  am  riding  off  to  Dickson's  about  my  gun, 
and  shan't  be  home  until  midnight :  and  I  shall 
start  before  daylight  to-morrow.  So  give  me 
your  hand,  Katharine.  Forgive  and  forget. 
Perhaps  we  shall  live  happier  together  when  I 
come  back  again.  We'll  part  friends  now,  at 
all  events." 

She  went  up  to  him,  and,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  kissed  him  of  her  own  accord.  In 
times  to  come,  the  remembered  action  proved  a 
balm  for  many  a  conscience-sting. 
.  Thus  it  was  that  Katharine  Ogilvie  parted 
from  her  husband. 


CHAPTER  LXI. 


My  breast  is  pressed  to  thine,  Alice, 

My  arm  is  round  thee  twined ; 
Thy  breath  dwells  on  my  lip,  Alice, 

Like  clover-scented  wind. 
Love  glistens  in  thy  sunny  ce, 

And  blushes  on  thy  brow, 
Earth's  heaven  is  here  to  thee  and  me, 

For  we  are  happy  now. 

My  hand  is  on  thy  heart  Alice, 

Sae  place  thy  hand  in  mine ; 
Now  welcome  weal  or  wo,  Alice, 

Our  love  we  canna  tine. 
Ae  kiss !  let  others  gather  gowd 

Frae  ilka  land  or  sea ; 
My  treasure  is  the  richest  yet, 

For,  Alice,  I  hae  thee  ! 

ROBERT  NICOL. 

IN  a  few  days  Eleanor  began  to  feel  the 
delicious  dreamy  calm  of  waking  from  bodily 
sickness  to  convalescence — from  anguish  of  mind 
to  dawning  hope.  Though  still  Philip  came  not 
she  felt  sure  that  he  would  come,  speeded  by 
the  love  which  she  doubted  not  lay  deep  in  his 
heart  still.  If  ever  there  was  a  living  embodi- 
ment of  faith — woman's  faith — it  was  Eleanor 
Ogilvie.  She  had  been  all  her  life  full  of  trust 
in  every  human  creature.  It  is  the  wavering, 
the  doubtful,  who  dream  of  change ;  it  is  the 
inconstant  only  who  dread  inconstancy. 

She  lay  for  hours  together  on  her  couch  beside 
the  drawing-room  window,  with  her  meek  hands 
folded,  and  her  eyes,  now  calm  as  of  old,  though 
a  little  more  thoughtful,  watching  the  little 
clouds  floating  over  the  sky.  Then,  with  the 
almost  childlike  interest  that  very  trifles  give  to 
one  who  is  recovering  from  severe  illness,  she 
would  turn  to  regard  the  many  gifts  of  flowers 
or  fruit  which  she  was  daily  receiving,  every 
one  of  which  showed  how  dearly  Eleanor  was 
loved.  She  seemed  to  have  passed  out  of  that 
terrible  darkness  into  a  world  that  was  full  of 
love.  In  this  deep  peace  she  rested  as  a  child 
lies  dreaming  in  the  sunshine — not  pondering 
whence  it  came,  or  how  long  it  would  last,  nor 
yet  troubled  with  doubts  of  her  own  worthiness. 
She,  opening  her  full  heart  to  all,  felt  love  con- 
tinually  around  her — God's  love  and  man's;  she 
rejoiced  therein,  and  her  every  thought  was  a 
mute  thanksgiving.  Blessed,  thrice  blessed,  are 
they  whose  souls  thus  turn  heavenward,  not  in 
sorrow  alone,  but  also  in  gladness.  And  surely 
the  sacrifice  of  a  happy  spirit  must  be  accept- 
able unto  Him,  who  only  suffers  His  little  ones 
to  walk  in  sackcloth  and  ashes  for  a  time,  that, 
so  chastened,  He  may  lift  them  to  His  presence 

It  was  the  still,  dreamy  hush  of  an  autumn 
afternoon,  when  Philip  reached  Summerwood. 
He  came  into  Eleanor's  presence  alone.  She 
had  fallen  asleep :  there  was  a  quiet  smile  play- 
ing round  her  lips,  as  though  she  were  dreaming 
happily.  It  was  so,  indeed,  for  the  dream  had 
borne  her  to  the  pleasant  palace-garden.  ,She 
sat  underneath  the  old  cherry-tree,  listening  to 
the  rustling  of  its  leaves  and  scented  blossoms. 
She  heard  Philip's  voice ;  she  fell  the  clasp  of 
Philip's  hand ;  and  then— oh  blessed  waking ! — 
she  found  the  dream  was  true !  He  knelt  beside 
her  couch,  gazing  upon  her,  almost  weeping  ovei 
her. 

"Philip — my  Philip — you  are  come — I  knew 
you  would  come  at  last !" 


128 


THE  OGILVIES. 


Again,  as  on  that  mournful  night,  she  extended 
her  lovin<r  arms.  He  did  not  dash  them  from  him 

now he&clasped  them  wildly  round  his  neck, 

though  he  could  not  speak  one  word.  The  next 
moment  she  was  nestling  in  his  breast. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  either  broke  that 
blessed  silence.  At  last  Eleanor  looked  up  in 
his  face,  and  said — 

"  You  are  not  angry  with  me  now,  Philip  ? 
You  know  all?" 

"I  know  nothing,  but  that  I  am  here,  beside 
you,  holding  you  fast — fast !  Oh,  Eleanor,  neither 
life  nor  death  shall  take  you  away  from  me !  Say 
t!i;it  it  shall  be  so,  that  nothing  on  earth  shall  ever 
part  us  more." 

And  softly  answering,  came  to  Philip's  ear 
the  words,  which  to  sorrow  are  a  knell — to  love 
a  deep  anthem  of  perpetual  joy — :'  Never  more 
— never  more !" 

After  a  while  they  began  to  talk  more  calmly. 
"You  have  asked  me  nothing,  Philip,"  said  Elea- 
nor. "  I  feel  how  kind,  how  tender  this  is — when 
you  have  been  so  tried :  but  now  I  must  tell  you 
all." 

"  Tell  me  nothing,  my  dearest,  save  that  you 
love  me." 

"You  thought  I  did  not  love  you,  Philip?" 
and  her  eyes  were  lifted  to  his — a  whole  life's 
faith  expressed  in  their  gaze.  "  You  will  not 
think  so  any  more?" 

He  made  no  answer — how  could  he?  Oh 
blessed  ones ! — thus  binding  up  the  hopes  of  a 
life-time  in  this  perfect  union  of 

"  One-thoughted,  never-wandering,  guileless  love." 

Then  Eleanor  drew  from  her  bosom  Philip's 
*etter ;  that  long,  mournful  letter,  to  which  her 
wlence  had  been  such  a  fatal  reply.  He  shrank 
from  the  sight  of  it. 

"  Nay,  my  Philip !  but  you  must  listen  to  me 
for  a  little — only  a  little.  We  must  not  have 
between  us  even  the  shadow  of  a  cloud."  And 
she  began  her  tale  slowly  and  cautiously,  trying 
not  to  mention  Mrs.  Breynton's  name. 

Philip  changed  countenance  at  first.  "  Then 
the  rumor  was  not  all  false,  Eleanor,  dearest? 
Why  did  you  not  tell  me  this  about  Mr.  Lyne- 
don? '' 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  his :  "  Stay  one  moment 
before  you  judge  me.  In  those  two  happy  days 
— for,  with  all  our  trials,  they  were  happy  days — 
there  was  in  my  heart  no  thought  of  any  one, 
save — save  him  who  then  asked  for  it ;  ay,  and 
had  it  too,  almost  before  he  asked."  And  a 
conscious  blush,  and  dimpling  smile,  brought 
back  to  her  face  its  long-vanished  playfulness. 

"Eleanor,"  interrupted  her  lover,  fondly,  "you 
look  as  you  did  long  ago,  when  we  were  girl  and 
boy  together  at  the  palace.  You  will  be  my  own 
«unny-faced  little  Nelly  again  soon." 

"Shall  I?"  and  her  low,  glad-hearted  laugh 
fschoed  his  own.  How  childlike  are  happy  lovers ! 

"But,  Philip,"  Eleanor  went  on,  gravely, 
"after  that  time  I  did  not  speak  about  Paul 
Lynedon,  because  I  thought  it  scarcely  right. 
All  love  is  sacred;  hopeless  love  most  sacred 
of  all.  It  seems  to  me  that  a  woman  should  not 
betray,  even  to  him  who  has  her  whole  heart, 
the  sufferings  of  another  who  has  cast  his  love 
before  her  in  vain.  You  do  not  think  me  wrong  ?" 

"  No,  no :  you  are  good  and  true,  and  com- 
passionate to  all,  my  dearest." 


"Afterward  I  was  most  glad  to  find  that  Mr, 
Lynedon  had  lost  all  painful  memory  of  me.  We 
met  by  chance  at  Florence,  and  again  in  London, 
when  we  talked  together  frankly  and  cordially, 
as  old  friends.  This  happened  on  that  night  at 
my  brother's,  that  sad  night  when — " 

"How  mad,  how  blind,  how  wicked  was  I !" 
cried  Philip.  Then  he  told  her  all,  passionately 
imploring  her  forgiveness  for  every  doubt,  and 
still  more  for  every  harsh  and  unkind  word. 

But  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  lips :  "  Philip, 
you  loved — you  love  me,  as  I  you ;  tksre  is  no 
need  of  forgiveness  between  us.  Therefore," 
she  added,  softly,  "in  our  perfect  joy,  we  havo 
more  need  to  show  pardon  unto  those  who  erred 
against  us.  Philip,  my  true  Philip,  you  will 
listen  to  me  a  little  longer?" 

He  sat  down  by  her  side,  and  there,  resting 
her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  holding  both  his 
hands — as  though  she  would  not  let  him  go  until 
her  influence  had  subdued  any  wrath  he  might 
feel — Eleanor  told  her  betrothed  the  story  of  his 
aunt's  wickedness.  But  she  did  not  call  it  by 
that  harsh  name  :  she  spoke  with  most  merciful 
tenderness  of  the  wrong  done  to  both ;  and  spoke 
not  of  it  at  all  until  she  had  lingered  long  ovei 
Philip's  childish  days,  reminding  him  of  every 
olden  kindness  which  could  soften  his  heart 
toward  Mrs.  Breynton. 

Philip  Wychnor  was  of  a  gentle  spirit,  but  he 
was  also  a  man.  He  had  become  one  even  since 
Eleanor  had  parted  from  him.  The  hard  strug- 
gle with  the  world  had  made  every  passion  in 
his  nature  ten  times  stronger.  He  was  stung  to 
the  quick  by  the  discovery  alike  of  the  personal 
wrong,  and  the  deceit,  at  which  his  truthful 
spirit  revolted.  Starting  up,  he  paced  the  room 
in  vehement  anger. 

"And  it  was  for  this  that  I  asked  you  to  stay 
with  her,,  and  fulfill  the  duties  I  owed !  But  I 
owe  her  none  now :  all  is  blotted  out  between 
us.  Eleanor  !  you  shall  leave  her — we  will 
neither  of  us  look  upon  her  face  more.  Oh  !  if 
she  had  succeeded  in  her  guilt,  and  I  had  known 
the  truth  too  late,  I  should  have  hated — have 
cursed  her !" 

Eleanor  half  rose  from  the  couch,  and  gazed 
upon  her  lover.  She  saw  in  the  clenched  hands 
and  knotted  brow  a  new  development  of  his 
character.  For  the  moment  she  sank  back, 
pained  and  terrified.  She  learned  for  the  first 
time  that  a  woman  must  be  to  the  man  she  loves, 
not  merely  his  joy — his  consolation — but  the 
softener  of  his  nature — the  patient  soother  of 
those  stormy  passions  that  will  rise  at  times  in 
the  best  and  noblest  of  mankind.  She  must  take 
him  as  he  is,  bearing  meekly  with  aught  that  she 
sees  wrong,  striving  hopefully  to  win  him  to  the 
right,  and  loving  him  dearly  through  all.  Elea- 
nor felt  this,  and  casting  aside  the  womanly  su- 
premacy of  wooing  days,  she  entered  on  a  wife's 
lowly  duty  ere  she  bore  a  wife's  name. 

She  rose  up  and  tried  to  walk  across  the  room 
to  his  side,  but  her  feeble  strength  failed. 
"Philip,"  she  said,  faintly,  "I  am  very  weak 
still.  I  can  not  reach  you.  Will  you  come 
and  sit  by  me  again  ?" 

He  did  so,  still  uttering  many  words  of  sup- 
pressed anger.  But  he  suffered  her  to  take  his 
hand  with  a  soft,  firm  clasp.  She  would  not  let 
it  go  again,  but  pressed  it  close  to  her  bosom 
as  though  the  peace  and  forgiveness  there  would 


THE  OGILVIES. 


•29 


Ihus  pass  into  her  lover's  storm-vexed  heart. 
5Tet  she  did  not  attempt  to  speak  for  a  long  time. 
At  last  she  whispered — 

"Philip,  when  that  future  comes  which  we 
have  hoped  for  all  our  lives,  and  to  which  we 
now  look  forward,  think  how  happy  we  shall  be 
— so  happy  that  we  ought  to  pray  that  all  the 
world  may  be  happy  too !  And  when  we  grow 
old  together,  still  loving  one  another,  until  time's 
changes  come  so  lightly  that  we  fear  them  not, 
then  we  shall  feel,  much  more  than  we  do  now, 
what  a  terrible  thing  must  be  an  old  age,  lonely 
and  without  love.  We  could  not,  even  though 
wronged,  inflict  this  bitter  desolation  on  her.1' 

"Eleanor,  why  do  you  speak  thus?  What 
do  you  wish  me  to  do  ?  Bat  I  can  not  do  it — it 
is  impossible.  I  will  not — I  ought  not!"  he 
continued,  without  waiting  for  her  answer. 

She  did  not  contradict  him,  but  only  said, 
softly,  "  Do  you  think  we  could  be  quite  happy, 
even  in — in  our  own  dear  home — "  she  hesi- 
tated, faintly  blushing;  but  npented  not  the 
words  when  she  saw  how  on  hearing  them  his 
countenance  relaxed,  and  his  firm-set  lips  trem- 
bled with  emotion.  "  Could  we  be  quite  happy, 
even  there, "  she  repeated,  "when  we  must  for- 
ever forget  those  olden  days  at  the  palace,  and 
think  that  there  was  one  name,  once  loved  by 
both,  which  we  could  not  utter  more — we,  too, 
who  have  neither  father  nor  mother  to  claim  the 
loving  duty  which  we  once  hoped  to  pay  to  her  ? 
Let  us  pay  it  still,  Philip,"  she  continued,  finding 
that  no  bitter  answer  came,  and  that  the  hand 
she  held  pressed  hers  convulsively.  "Let  us 
place  no  bar  between  us  and  the  past — let  us 
have  no  shadow  of  regret  to  dim  our  happiness. 
Philip,  dearest,  best! — in  whom  I  trust,  and 
have  trusted  all  my  life — forgive  her!" 

"I  would — I  would — if  this  wrong  were  only 
against  myself.  But  you,  my  darling — you  who 
tended  her  like  a  daughter ;  she  had  no  pity  on 
you." 

"  She  knew  not  what  she  was  doing ;  I  feel 
sure  she  loved  me  all  the  while.  And  now,  oh 
Philip !  if  you  could  see  her  repentance — her 
tears !  At  the  thought  of  your  coming  she 
trembled  like  a  child.  And  she  is  so  changed — 
so  feeble — so  old !  Philip,  look — look  there !" 

She  pointed  to  the  lawn  beneath  the  window. 
There,  creeping  slowly  along  in  the  autumn 
sunshine,  was  a  stooping,  aged  woman,  who, 
even  with  the  aid  of  the  servant  on  whose  arm 
she  leaned,  appeared  to  move  wearily  and  pain- 
fully. 

Philip  started  up.  "  Is  that  aunt  Breynton — 
poor  aunt  Breynton?" 

"It  is,  indeed!  See  how  feebly  she  walks, 
even  with  Davis's  arm.  Poor,  faithful  Davis  is 
herself  growing  old,  but  her  mistress  has  no  one 
else.  And  Philip,  dear  Philip,  your  arm  is  so 
strong  !  Think  how  we  two  are  entering  life — 
a  life  full  of  love,  hope,  and  joy — while  she — " 

;'Hush,  hush,  darling;  say  no  more."  He 
pressed  a  kiss  on  her  forehead,  and  was  gone 
from  the  room.  The  next  minute  she  saw  him 
walking  quickly  down  the  lawn.  Eleanor  could 
look  no  more ;  she  sank  down  on  the  pillow,  and 
wept  tears  more  holy,  more  joyful,  than  even 
those  so  lately  shed  in  reconciled  love  on  Philip's 
bosom. 

Her  work  was  done.  It  was  chronicled  by 
no  human  tongue — noted  by  no  human  eye. 


Only  when,  a  few  weeks  after,  she  sat  with 
Philip  and  Philip's  aunt,  listening  to  the  reading 
of  the  Holy  Book,  which  sounded  holier  still  in 
the  Sabbath  silence  of  the  old  cathedral,  Eleanor 
heard  the  words — 

"  Blessed  are  the  peacemakers,  for  they  shaL 
inherit  the  kingdom  of  heaven — " 

With  her,  the  blessedness  had  begun  even  on 
earth. 

Yet  a  little  we  would  fain  linger  with  these 
twain  on  that  day  of  happiness  and  peace ;  we 
would  fain  see  them  as  they  talked  in  the  quiet 
autumn  evening,  watching  the  sunset.  Eleanor 
still  rested  on  her  couch,  while  Philip  sat  by 
her  side,  her  fingers  wandering  in  his  hair.  She 
counted,  laughingly,  one— two— three — white 
threads  among  the  fair  silken  curls ;  at  which  he 
seemed  to  murmur  greatly,  seeing  he  was  not 
thirty  yet.  But  they  had  no  fear  of  growing 
old,  now. 

They  talked  of  all  which  had  chanced  to  Philip 
during  these  years  of  varied  fortune.  He  told 
her  of  the  phases  through  which  his  mind  had 
passed,  of  the  new  life  that  had  dawned  within 
him,  and  of  the  earnest  aim  with  which  he  now 
followed  an  author's  calling.  Eleanor  saw  that 
to  him  there  had  come  a  change — or,  rather, 
less  a  change  than  a  growth.  He  had  risen  to 
the  full  strength  of  a  man — and  a  man  of  gen- 
ius ;  he  was  conscious  of  it,  too,  and  the  high 
and  noble  ambition  born  of  such  consciousness 
was  in  him  almost  as  strong  as  love  itself.  His 
betrothed  felt  this,  but  the  knowledge  gave  her 
no  pain.  Her  woman's  heart,  to  which  love 
was  all,  could  at  first  scarcely  comprehend  the 
mystery ;  but  ere  long  it  would  all  grow  plain, 
she  knew.  The  most  tender  and  high-hearted 
woman,  on  whom  falls  the  blessed  but  solemn 
destiny  to  be  the  wife  of  one  endowed  with 
Heaven's  great  gift  of  genius,  must  ever  feel 
that  there  are  depths  in  his  soul  into  which  she 
can  not  look— depths  which  are  open  only  to  the 
eye  of  God.  Shame  be  to  her  if  her  mean, 
jealous  love  should  desire  to  engross  all;  or, 
standing  between  him  and  the  Infinite  to  which 
he  aspires,  should  wish  to  darken  with  one 
earthly  shadow  the  image  of  the  Divine ! 

Thus  they  together  held  glad  yet  thoughtful 
converse,  as  was  meet  for  those  who  would  soon 
enter  on  life's  journey  hand-in-hand.  The}'  talk- 
ed but  little  of  their  worldly  future,  since  it  was 
all  plain  before  them  now;  and  both  had  far 
higher  thoughts  than  counting  of  gold  and  sil- 
ver store,  and"planning  a  luxurious  home.  Once 
only  Philip  called  her  "his  fair  heiress,  his  rich 
Eleanor,"  and  asked  smilingly  whether  the  worM 
would  not  contemn  her  for  marrying  a  poor 
author. 

But  she  only  smiled  in  return.  The  love  be- 
tween them  was  so  perfect,  that  which  gave  or 
which  received  mattered  not.  The  act  was 
merely  a  name. 

Then  the  twilight  grew  dimmer,  the  room 
darkened,  and  through  the  window  whence  they 
had  gazed  on  the  sunset  th6y  looked  up  at  a  sky 
all  thick  with  stars.  The  words  of  the  betrothed 
pair  became  fewer  and  more  solemn,  though  ten- 
der still.  From  the  earthly  path  which  they 
would  tread  together,  their  thoughts  turned  to 
the  unseen  world  beyond.  Most  blessed  they, 
Whose  love  feared  no  parting  even  there ! 

They  spoke — ay,  amidst  their  cteep  happiness 


THE  OGILVIES. 


—they  spoke  of  this ;  and  then  there  came  upon 
their  lips  a  few  beloved  names,  whose  sound  had 
passed  from  earth  to  heaven.  The  mother, 
could  she  have  bent  down  from  the  eternal  home, 
might  have  heard  that  even  amidst  this  blessed- 
ness her  child  remembered  her ;  and  the  young 
spirit,  so  early  taken,  might  have  rejoiced  to 
know  that  the  thought  of  poor  Leigh  lingered  in 
his  friend's  fond  memory  still. 

Thus,  folded  closely  heart  to  heart,  Philip  and 
Eleanor  looked  up  to  the  starry  sky,  and  thank- 
ed Heaven  for  the  love  that  would  bless  and 
brighten  earth,  until  it  attained  its  full  fruition 
In  eternity. 


CHAPTER  LII. 

Thus  it  was  always  with  me  when  with  thee, 

And  I  forget  my  purpose  and  my  wrongs 

In  looking  and  in  loving. 

To  say  that  thou  didst  love  me  ?    Curse  the  air. 

That  bore  the  sound  to  me ! 

There  is  fto  blasphemy  in  love,  but  doubt: 

No  sin,  but  to  deceive. 

Now  I  forgive  thy  having  loved  another, 

And  I  foVgive— but  never  mind  it  now ; 

I  have  forgiven  so  much,  there's  nothing  left 

To  make  more  words  about.    Answer  me  not, 

Let  me  say  what  I  have  to  say.    Then— go ! 

PHILIP  BAILEY. 

PAUL  LYNEDON  had  been  whirled  through  life 
like  a  stray  autumn  leaf,  the  sport  of  every  breeze 
of  impulse  or  circumstance.  An  instinctive  no- 
bleness had  kept  him  free  from  any  great  sin, 
and  his  strong  desire  for  the  world's  good  opin- 
ion served  frequently  to  deter  him  from  smaller 
errors.  But  he  never  did  a  thing  solely  because 
it  was  right.  Interest  and  inclination  were  with 
him  motives  far  more  powerful  than  any  abstract 
love  of  virtue. 

Thus  he  suffered  himself  to  be  drifted  idly 
on  by  any  chance  current,  and  had  probably  dur- 
ing his  whole  life  known  no  fixed  principle  or 
real  emotion,  until  every  impulse  of  his  being 
concentrated  itself  in  passion  for  Katharine 
Ogilvie.  Perhaps  the  very  hopelessness  of  this 
love  made  it  ten  times  stronger,  for  there  was 
still  in  Lynedon's  character  that  strange  contra- 
riety which  made  every  thing  more  precious  in 
the  degree  that  it  seemed  unattainable. 

Of  the  end  he  never  thought  any  more  than 
Katharine.  He  was  not  an  evil-hearted  man ;  and 
if  he  had  been  such,  this  love  had  so  purified  his 
nature,  that  against  her,  at  least,  he  could  not  sin. 
He  could  only  cast  his  soul  at  her  feet,  worshiping 
with  mute,  lifted  hands  and  covered  face,  that 
dared  not  even  by  one  glance  ask  for  an  answer- 
ing love. 

Until  now  ! — On  that  early  morning,  when  he 
walked  by  her  side  along  the  avenue  at  Summer- 
wood,  Paul  Lynedon  had  been  startled  by  the  few 
words  which  the  strong,  pent-up  tide  of  emo- 
tion had  forced  from  Katharine's  lips.  Could  it 
be  that  the  girlish  admiration  over  which  he  had 
once  smiled  complacently— though  he  now  clung 
to  its  memory  with*  an  intense  and  lingering 
fondness,  of  which  he  then  little  dreamed — could 
it  be  that  this  was  indeed  the  dawn  of  a  far  deep- 
er feeling?  Had  she  then  loved— and,  O  bliss- 
ful thought,  that  made  his  heart  leap  with  des- 
perate joy !  did  she  love  him  now  ? 

Paul  saw  Katharine  no  more  that  day,  but  on 
the  next  there  had  reached  him  f.he  letter  to 


Philip  Wychnor,  accompanied  by  a  single  word, 
"Remember!"  He  flew  on  his  almost  forgot- 
;en  mission  with  a  joyful  speed.  That  mission 
iulfilled,  he  longed  for  its  guerdon — a  look,  a 
word,  a  smile ;  and  though  without  any  settled 
purpose,  save  the  impulse  which  drew  him  con- 
tinually to  her  side,  Paul  Lynedon  found  himself 
on  the  road  to  Summerwood. 

There  was  one  only  whose  winged  feet  had 
outstripped  even  his  own — Philip  Wychnor. 
But  the  bright,  holy  sunbeam  of  love  traveled 
faster  than  the  mad  whirlwind  of  passion. 

Lynedon  came  when  the  night  was  closing  in. 
He  had  dashed  his  swift  horse  along  through 
the  still  evening ;  he  had  left  behind  him,  with- 
out one  glance,  the  gorgeous  sunset  on  which 
the  happy  plighted  lovers  had  gazed  so  lingor- 
ingly.  But  Paul  saw  nothing  in  earth  or  heaven 
save  the  shadowy  image  that  flitted  before  him, 
beckoning  him  on  with  the  likeness  of  Katha- 
rine's eyes  and  Katharine's  smile.  Not  as  these 
usually  met  him,  freezing  his  heart  with  their 
cold  haughtiness,  or  torturing  him  with  way- 
ward anger — but  softened,  tearful,  and  tremulous 
with  love.  The  strong  fantasy  almost  over- 
whelmed him. 

He  stood  within  the  hall  at  Summerwood)  and 
the  madness  came  upon  him  with  an  added 
power.  It  was  the  same  spot — the  dim  old  hall, 
half  illumined  by  the  lamp.  Beneath  this 
flickering  light  he  had  once  gazed  down  upon 
the  girlish  face,  whose  sorrowful  sweetness  won 
from  him  that  parting  kiss.  It  was  nothing  to 
him  then,  but  he  remembered  it  now  with  a 
thrill  that  sped  lightning-like  through  his  frame. 

"  Sir  Robert,"  the  servant  said,  "  was  engaged 
with  Parliamentary  business  in  the  drawing- 
room  ;  Miss  Ogilvie  was  in  the  drawing-room, 
but  she  saw  no  visitors  as  yet ;  and  Mrs.  Ogil- 
vie— " 

"Ask  if  Mrs.  Ogilvie  will  see  me  for  a  few 
moments.  And  meanwhile  I  will  go  in  here." 

He  laid  his  hand — half  by  chance,  half  through 
a  wayward  impulse  that  sprang  from  these 
thronging  memories  of  the  past — on  the  door  of 
the  room  where  Sir  James  had  died.  • 

There,  in  the  same  arm-chair  where  Paul 
had  found  the  pale,  sorrowful  girl  of  old,  sat 
Katharine ;  but  her  attitude  was  not  as  then — 
that  of  gentle,  musing  grief — it  expressed  the 
utter  abandonment  of  despair.  She  leaned  over 
the  arm  of  the  chair,  her  head  bowed,  and  her 
clasped  hands  stretched  out  rigidly.  So  deep 
was  the  trance  that  she  heard  not  Taul  Lyne- 
don's step  until  he  stood  beside  her. 

"Katharine!" 

"  Mr.  Lynedon  !  you  dare  to — "  She  sprang 
up  and  confronted  him  with  her  gleaming  eyes. 
But  the  flash  passed  in  a  moment.  "  Pardon 
me,  but  I  think  you  forget  yourself" — and  the 
cold,  severe  tone  fell  upon  his  vehemence  like 
ice  upon  fire  :  "  our  friendship,  or  rather  our 
acquaintance,  scarcely  warrants  this  intrusion." 

"  Acquaintance,  Mrs.  Ogilvie  !  You  talk  ei 
acquaintance,  when — " 

But  again,  for  the  hundreth  time,  her  loc^ 
froze  him  into  stone.  He  stopped,  hesiiatetl, 
and  was  silent. 

"  This  is  a  late  visit.  To  what  may  I  attri- 
bute the  pleasure  ?" 

For  a  moment  Paul  drew  himself  up  with  hi* 
old  haughtiness.  "  If  I  intrude,  perhaps  I  •-' 


THE  OGILV1ES. 


131 


Bu*  he  could  not  go  on  thus,  for  he  was  in  her 
presence — he  felt  ^the  spell  that  lay  in  every 
movement  of  her  hand — every  rustle  of  her  gar- 
ments. All  his  love  rushed  back  upon  him  like 
a  flcod.  "  What — what  have  I  done  to  offend 
you  ?"  he  cried.  "  Have  I  not  been  journeying 
day  and  night  to  fulfill  your  command  ? — a  com- 
mand blindly  obeyed — to  what  end  I  know  not !" 
and  once  more  a  quick,  jealous  pang  smote  him, 
goading  him  on  to  still  wilder  words.  "  I  had 
not  thought  our  meeting  would  be  thus.  If  I 
-have  done  wrong,  tell  me — and  then,  then — in 
mercy  forgive  me." 

"  For  this  long,  and  somewhat  unwarrantable 
speech,  certainly!"  answered  Katharine.  "I 
am  not  aware  of  aught  else  of  your  doing,  which 
is  to  me  of  sufficient  importance  even  to  need 
forgiveness.  And  now  allow  me  to  thank  you 
for  your  kind  offices  in  this  matter,  and  to  hope 
that  you  also  will  grant  me  pardon  for  having  so 
far  encroached  on  your  courtesy." 

"  Courtesy  !  you  call  it  courtesy  !  Well,  let 
it  be  so ;  you  will  never,  never  know !"  said 
Lynedon,  hoarsely.  He  sank  on  a  chair  at  a 
little  distance,  and  bent  his  face  from  her  sight. 

Katharine  looked  upon  him — this  careless, 
proud  man — as  he  crouched  and  trembled  be- 
fore her.  "  I  have  triumphed — I  triumph  now !" 
she  said  in  her  heart;  and  its  throbs  of  glad 
vengeance  rose  higher  and  higher,  until  they 
sank,  stilled  by  the  stronger  power  of  love. 
But  she  dreaded  the  calm  and  the  silence  more 
than  the  storm. 

"  Mr.  Lynedon,"  she  said,  speaking  less 
coldly,  but  brokenly  and  hurriedly,  "  I  will  not 
detain  you  here  ;  I  am  not  well ;  I  have  suffered 
so  much." 

"  You  are  ill  ?  you  suffer  ?"  and  he  sprang  to 
her  side.  She  moved  away  from  him ;  not 
pointedly,  but  firmly. 

"  It  is  nothing ;  merely  caused  by  anxiety  on 
my  sister's  account.  You  do  not  ask  about 
her." 

"  Pardon  me  :  I  think  of  nothing  except — 
except — " 

"  She  is  recovering,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Ogil- 
vie,  turning  away  from  his  gaze  of  wild  fond- 
ness ;  "  and  lest  there  should  seem  any  thing 
strange  in  this  mission  which  you  have  kindly 
accomplished,  I  think  it  due  both  to  Eleanor  and 
myself  that  I  should  acquaint  you  with  its  rea- 
son. It  may  give  you  surprise,  perhaps  unwel- 
come surprise" — and  the  tone  grew  cold  and 
scornful  once  more — "  to  learn  that  Mr.  Wych- 
nor  and  my  sister  have  been  affianced  lovers  for 
years." 

"Indeed  !  I  half  thought — that  is,  I  guessed. 
Of  course  I  am  most  delighted,"  was  Lynedon's 
somewhat  contused  answer. 

Katharine's  piercing  eyes  were  upon  him. 
"You  need  not  use  idle  words;  you  need  not 
let  your  tongue  belie  you  again;"  she  said, 
vainly  striving  against  the  storm  of  anger  that 
was  once  more  brooding.  "  It  shows  small  re- 
spect for  Eleanor,  when  her  sometime  wooer 
sondescends  to  a  needless  falsehood  in  order  to 
concetti  this  love-." 

Lyndon   staggered,    as    though    every   word 
uttered   by  that   low,  clear  voice  had  been  an 
arrow  in  his  breast.     "  Love  !  you  think,  then, 
that  1  loved  Eleanor  Ogilvie  ! — Listen — " 
'  May,  my  sister  requires  no  excuse." 


"  And  I  give  none  :  but  I  speak  to  you — you, 
Katharine.  If  you  coiJd  slay  me  with  that  look, 
I  would — I  will  call  you  so,"  cried  Paul,  trans- 
ported out  of  himself.  "  Listen,  Katharine — still 
Katharine.  1  came  here,  first,  a  mere  dreamer, 
with  the  years  of  a  man  and  the  folly  of  a  boy : 
your  cousin's  sweetness  pleased  me;  her  indif 
ference  spurred  me  on  to  an  idle  fancy.  Men 
have  many  such  which  they  call  love,  as  I  did, 
until  the  true  love  comes  !  Katharine,  I  know 
now,  to  my  misery — to  my  despair — I  know 
what  it  is  to  love  /" 

He  paused  a  moment.  Katharine's  eyes  sought 
his  face,  and  then  turned  fearfully  to  the  closed 
door,  as  though  in  flight  alone  would  she  save 
herself  from  the  gathering  doom.  But  her 
strength  failed ;  she  sank  helplessly  on  the  chair. 

Lynedon  stood  over  her,  his  impetuous  words 
pouring  on  her  ear  like  a  torrent  which  she 
could  neither  resist  nor  control. 

."  You  must,  you  shall  hear  me  yet.  I  tell  you 
that  I  know  now  what  love  is.  Love !  love  ! 
the  word  rings  ever  in  my  brain,  my  senses,  my 
soul !  Who  taught  it  me  ?  When  I  had  passed 
my  youth — when  my  heart  had  grown  cold  with 
its  dull  pulses  of  five-and-thirty  years — who  was 
it  that  put  life  therein — fearful,  torturing,  and 
yet  most  glorious  life  ?  If  heaven  and  hell  stood 
between  us,  I  must  cry  out,  as  I  do  now,  Take 
this  life  which  you  brought;  it  is  yours,  all 
yours,  for  I  love  you — I  love  you,  Katharine 
Ogilvie !" 

He  sank  at  her  feet,  and  kissed  passionately, 
not  her  hands,  though  they  lay  passive  and  cold 
on  her  knee,  but  her  very  dress.  The  impetuous 
speech  once  ended,  he  dared  not  even  lift  his 
eyes  to  her  face ;  he  trembled  lest  her  first  word 
should  crush  him  in  the  dust.  But  that  word 
did  not  come ;  she  neither  moved  nor  spoke. 

"Katharine,"  he  went  on — and  his  tone  sank 
from  vehemence  to  the  deepest  murmur  of 
tenderness — "Katharine,  forgive  me.  I  am  so 
wretched;  I  have  no  hope  in  heaven  or  earth 
but  you.  Think  what  a  fearful  thing  it  is  for 
me  to  love  you  thus  ! — you  who—  But  I  dare 
not  speak  of  that.  Nay,  you  need  not  draw  your 
hand  away ;  I  shall  not  take  it.  I  ask  nothing, 
hope  for  nothing  5  only  do  not  spurn  me — do  not 
drive  me  from  you !" 

She  moved,  and  looked  down  upon  him  for  an 
instant ;  but  in  her  eyes  there  was  less  of  love 
than  of  terror.  He  met  them,  ptill,  and  drew 
from  them  courage. 

"I  say  not,  Love  me  as  I  love.     You  do  not 

— you  can  not.     Only  be  merciful  and  gentle  to 

me,  for  the  sake  of  those  olden  days.     Have  you 

forgotten  them,  Katharine  ? — how  here,  in  this 

!  very  room,  in  this  very  chair,  you  sat,  and  I 

i  comforted  you  ?     Y^m  were  scarce  more  than  a 

child,  though  you  were  dear  to  me  even  iu    — 

J  why,  I  knew  not.     Katharine  !  my  Katharine  ! 

do  you  remember?" 

"Remember?"     She  started  up,   silent   and 
trembling  no   more.      "Yes,  I   do   rei 
And  now  that  the  time  has  come,  you  sh;. 
all.     Listen,  Paul!" 

;'  You  call  ma  Paul !     Oh,  kindest  . 
you  call  me  Paul!"  murmured  Lynedur., 

"Again,  Paul! — though  after  thiu  :'ii>>  the 
name  shall  never  pass  my  lips.  You  speak 
truly ;  I  was  a  child — a  happy  child — until  you 
came  You  came,  with  your  winning  words, 


132 


THE  OGILVIES. 


your  subduing  tenderness >  you  made  me  be- 
lieve it  all—me,  a  simple  girl,  gifted,  to  my 
misery,  with  a  woman's  heart!  See,  I  speak 
without  a  blush  or  a  sigh— these  are  past  now. 
Paul  Lynedon,  I  loved  you  then — I  have  loved 
you  all  my  life  through— I  love  you  now,  dearly, 
dearly!  But  I  tell  you  this  for  the  first  time 
and  the  last,  for  you  shall  never  look  on  my  face 
more." 

"Katharine,  have  mercy!" 

"  You  had  none  !  Oh,  why  did  you  deceive 
me?  Why  did  your  lips  speak  falsely — ay, 
more  than  speak?"  and  Katharine  shuddered. 
"  Why  did  your  hand  write  what  your  heart  felt 
not?  And  I,  who  loved,  who  trusted  you  so, 
vtntil  I  heard —  But  I  can  not  think  of  it  now 
— it  drove  me  mad !  Now,  when  we  might  have 
been  so  happy,  it  is  too  late  !  too  late ! 

Her  voice  sank  into  a  low,  broken  weeping. 
There  was  a  silence — a  terrible  silence,  and  then 
Katharine  felt  her  hand  drawn  in  his.  She 
lifted  herself  up,  almost  with  a  cry. 

"You  can  not — you  dare  not  take  my  hand. 
See !  see !"  Snatching  it  away,  she  pointed  to 
the  golden  symbol  it  bore — the  wedding-ring ! 

Lynedon  sprang  madly  to  his  feet.  "  Kath- 
arine, there  is  no  pity  in  heaven  or  earth  for  us 
— I  say  MS,  because  you  love  me.  I  know  it 
now ;  I  see  it  in  your  anger  as  in  your  tears — 
those  blessed  tears!  Oh,  Katharine,  I  can  not 
weep,  but  I  could  pour  out  my  heart's  blood  for 
you !" 

Again  he  paused,  and  then  went  on  speaking 
in  a  low,  rapid  whisper.  "  Tell  me — for  I  know 
nothing — nothing,  except  that  I  am  almost  mad ! 
— tell  me  what  we  must  do.  Shall  I  end  all 
this?  Katharine,  my  lost  Katharine!  shall  I 
die?" 

"No,  no,  no!"  and  she  unconsciously  seized 
Lynedon's  hands.  "Hush,  Paul!  be  calm,  let 
me  think  a  moment." 

She  began  to  talk  soothingly;  leaning  over 
him  the  while,  and  trying  to  speak  in  quiet  and 
gentle  tones. 

Then  Paul  Lynedon  forgot  all — honor,  duty, 
even  love ;  for  the  love  that  would  destroy  is  un- 
worthy of  the  name. 

"Katharine,"  he  murmured,  "the  world  shuts 
us  out,  or  will  do  soon.  It  may  be  that  Heaven 
is  more  merciful  than  man.  Let  us  try !  Let 
us  go  far  away  together — to  some  land  beyond 
the  seas — to  some  Eden  where  love  is  no  longer 
sin!" 

Katharine  looked  at  him  for  an  instant,  with 
a  frenzied,  incredulous  gaze.  Then  she  un- 
clasped his  hand,  which  had  once  more  taken 
hers ;  flung  it  from  her,  and  sprang  upright. 

"Paul  Lynedon,  I  know  you  now!  You 
have  darkened  my  peace — you  have  made  me  a 
scorn,  a  loathing  to  myself— but  you  shall  not 
slay  my  soul.  Go — go  from  my  sight  forever!" 

He  flung  himself  on  the  ground,  kissing  her 
dress,  her  feet ;  but  there  was  no  relenting. 
She  stood,  with  lifted  hand,  pointing  to  the  door 
— moveless,  silent,  stern. 

"Katharine,  I  will  obey  you — I  will  go,"  he 
cried,  at  last.  "  I  will  never  cross  your  path 
again.  Only  forgive  me !  One  word— one  look 
— to  say  farewell!" 

But  there  she  stood  immovable  in  her  stony 
silence.  Beneath  it  his  own  passionate  heart 
grew  still  and  cold.  He  rose  up,  pressed  his 


lips  once  more  to  her  garment's  hem,  and  tnec 
crept  humbled  from  her  sight.  The  door  closed 
and  Katharine  was  alone. 

That  night  there  came  a  messenger  to  Sum- 
merwood,  with  tidings  awful  indeed!  Death 
had  struck  the  young  heir  in  the  midst  of  his 
careless  sports.  Death!  sudden  death!  occa- 
sioned unwittingly  by  his  own  hand.  Poor 
Hugh — kind-hearted,  good-natured  Hugh,  was 
brought  home  to  Summerwood,  dead ! 

Katharine  Ogilvie  was  a  widow. 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

'Twere  sweet  to  think  of— sweeter  still 

To  hope  for — that  this  blessed  end  soothes  up 
The  curse  of  the  beginning:  but  I  know 
It  comes  too  late. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 

IT  was  all  over;  and  the  unloving  wife  was 
free! 

Free !  when  she  was  haunted  perpetually  by 
an  avenging  voice,  bringing  back  to  her  memory 
the  false  marriage-vow — so  rashly  taken,  so 
nearly  broken — the  duties  unfulfilled — the  affec- 
tion unvalued,  and  requited  with  scorn.  It  was 
a  fearful  picture  of  a  wasted  life — wasted  by  the 
one  withering  shadow — the  love  which  placed 
the  Human  in  the  stead  of  the  D-'vme 

By  night  and  day  the^  young  jndow  watched 
in  mute  agony  beside  her  husband's  coffined  re- 
mains. Father,  mother,  friends,  went  away 
weeping,  and  saying  to  one  another,  "  See  how 
dearly  she  loved  him!"  But  Katharine  shud- 
dered to  hear  them,  knowing  that  it  was  less 
grief  she  felt,  than  a  bitter,  gnawing  remorse, 
which  cried  ever  aloud,  "It  is  too  late — too 
late !" 

She  thought  of  her  childish  days — of  Hugh's 
old  tenderness,  so  constant  and  yet  so  humble — 
of  his  patience  and  forbearance  during  their  brief 
married  life.  Throughout  that  married  life  she 
had  met  her  husband's  unsuspicious  gaze,  know- 
ing that  she  carried  in  her  soul  a  secret  that 
might  destroy  his  peace  forever.  And  when  the 
end  came,  she  had  suffered  Paul  Lynedon  to 
kneel  at  her  feet,  giving  and  receiving  the  con- 
fession of  erring  love.  She  had  felt,  with  that 
love,  the  glow  of  hatred  toward  him  who  stood 
between  her  and  happiness.  Nay,  there  had 
darted  across  her  mind  the  thought,  scarcely 
formed  into  a  wish,  that  some  strange  fate 
would  set  her  free.  And  even  then  the  thought 
was  accomplished.  She  had  withstood  the 
tempter,  she  had  kept  her  marriage-vow,  and 
yet  she  felt  almost  like  Hugh's  murderess.  At 
times  her  bewildered  mind  strove  to  palliate  the 
wrong  by  the  self-same  plea.  She  remembered 
that  Lynedon's  passionate  words  had  been  poured 
out  unto  a  widow — not  a  wife ;  and  that  she  her- 
self, in  repulsing  them,  had  kept  faithful— even 
to  the  dead. 

"  And  I  will  still  be  faithful !"  she  cried. 
"Oh,  my  husband  !  if  I  sinned  against  you  then, 
accept  the  atonement  now  !  Never,  never  shall 
my  hand  clasp  his — never  shall  Hugh's  widow 
became  Paul  Lynedon's  bride !  Husband  !  if  I 
sacrificed  your  peace,  I  will  offer  up  myself 
with  my  life's  hope  as  an  atonement  on  your 
grave !" 

Strong  was.  the  remorse  that  prompted  the 


THE  OGILVIES. 


133 


words— deep  was  the  shame  that  uttered  them; 
but  stronger  aud  deeper  than  either  remorse  or 
shame  was  the  undying  love  which  had  created, 
and  yet  withered,  the  life-destiny  of  Katharine 
Ogilvie. 

Hugh  rested  in  the  little  church  at  Summer- 
wood,  beneath  a  gorgeous  monument.  Sir  Rob- 
ert had  deplored  less  the  death  of  an  affectionate 
son-in-law  than  the  extinction  of  a  baronetcy 
two  hundred  years  old.  This  antiquity,  chron- 
icled in  golden  letters  beneath  the  weeping 
marble  cherubim,  for  the  benefit  of  ages  to  come, 
was  at  least  some  slight  consolation  to  the  be- 
reaved father-in-law. 

Eleanor  wept  many  an  affectionate  tear  over 
the  brother  who  was  so  different  from  herself, 
and  with  whom,  through  life,  she  had  held  little 
intercourse.  And  then  she  went  away  from 
Sumraerwood,  to  fulfill  once  more  the  self-as- 
sumed duties  of  a  daughter,  until  they  should 
merge  in  those  of  a  wife. 

All  the  long  winter  Katharine  spent  in  soli- 
tude. "Atonement — atonement !"  was  the  cry 
of  her  anguished  spirit,  and  she  strove  to  work 
out  that  penance  by  shutting  from  her  heart 
every  thought  save  the  memory  of  her  husband 
— every  pleasure  save  that  which  grew  out  of 
duties  fulfilled.  The  mother  mourned  no  longer 
over  her  careless  daughter;  Katharine  tended 
her  with  a  contrite  tenderness  that  was  almost 
painful  to  behold.  She  clung  with  a  vehement 
intensity  to  this  pure  love,  the  only  one  on  which 
her  memory  dared  rest  in  the  past — the  only  one 
to  which  she  looked  for  comfort  in  the  future. 

So  she  lived,  binding  down  every  impulse  in 
her  nature  with  an  iron  will,  born  of  remorse. 
She  imitated  the  martyrs  of  old,  who  thought  to 
win  atonement  by  inflicting  on  themselves  a 
living  death.  But  they  only  tortured  the  body ; 
Katharine  did  penance  with  the  soul.  The  self- 
conflict  was  vain,  for  it  sprang  from  proud  re- 
morse, not  humble  penitence.  Her  sorrow  could 
not  wash  away  the  suffering  or  the  sin,  for  the 
drops  that  fell  were  not  tears,  but  fire. 

From  the  time  when  she  drove  him  from  her 
presence,  Katharine  had  never  heard  of  Paul 
Lynedon.  It  was  her  prayer — the  prayer  of  her 
lips,  at  least — that  she  might  never  see  him  more. 
And  when  the  gloom  of  winter  passed,  and  the 
spring  came  out  upon  the  earth,  creating  vague 
yearnings  after  hope  and  love,  Katharine  still 
sought  to  deaden  them  with  prayer.  But  its 
very  utterance  only  made  it  the  more  false. 
Evermore,  piercing  through  remorse,  indigna- 
tion, and  shame,  rose  up  the  face  which  she  had 
last  seen  bowed  before  her  in  such  agonizing 
pleading,  less  for  love  than  for  pardon.  And 
one  day  she  saw  that  face — not  in  fancy,  but  in 
reality. 

She  was  on  her  knees  beside  her  father,  in  the 
church  at  Summerwood.  The  Sabbath  sunshine 
slanted  at  once  on  the  stately  monument  of  her 
husband,  and  on  her  own  drooped  head,  hidden 
by  the  thick  widow's  vail.  She  lifted  it,  and 
beheld  Paul  Lynedon. 

He  sat  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  church,  intently 
watching  her.  As  Katharine  rose,  their  eyes 
met,  and  a  numbing  coldness  crept  through  her 
veins.  Still,  she  had  power  to  answer  the  gaze 
with  another,  fixed,  freezing,  proud ;  and  then 
she  turned  away,  nor  lifted  her  eyes  again,  save 
to  the  marble  tablet  which  should  mark  the  dif- 


ference between  the  erring  wife  of  the  living, 
and  the  repentant  widow  of  the  dead.  She 
looked  no  more  toward  Lynedon,  Kit  she  felt  his 
eyes  upon  her,  and  his  influence  around  her.  It 
seemed  to  encompass  her  with  a  dim,  confused 
mist,  through  which  she  heard  the  priest's  voice 
and  the  organ's  sound  indistinctly  as  in  a  dream. 
In  vain  she  tried  to  break  the  spell,  driving  her 
thoughts  back  to  the  past — to  the  death-cham- 
ber— to  the  tomb  beneath  her  very  feet,  where 
the  young  man  was  laid  in  the  strength  of  his 
youth,  hidden  in  darkness  from  the  sunshine  and 
the  fresh  breeze,  and  all  those  pleasures  of  nature 
which  he  had  loved  so  well.  Katharine  gathered 
up  these  images  of  pain  and  laid  them  to  her 
soul,  but  they  could  not  press  from  it  the  one 
image  which  transcended  all  the  rest.  When 
she  passed  out  of  the  church,  clinging  helplessly 
to  her  father's  arm,  Sir  Robert  staid  a  moment, 
and  Katharine's  eyes,  impelled  by  an  uncontroll- 
able power,  looked  back  for  an  instant. 

Lynedon  watched  her  yet.  She  could  not  still 
the  rapture  of  her  heart — no,  not  though  the  spot 
she  stood  upon  was  her  husband's  grave. 

From  that  day  she  knew  that  wherever  she 
went  his  presence  encompassed  her.  If  she 
walked,  she  saw  a  shadow  gliding  beneath  the 
trees ;  if  she  rode,  there  echoed  far  in  the  dis- 
tance the  tramp  of  a  horse's  feet.  At  night, 
when  all  were  gone  to  rest,  she  heard  beneath 
her  window  a  footstep  that  paced  there  for  hours 
in  the  silence  and  the  darkness.  And  Katharine, 
who  so  long  ago  had  distinguished,  above  all  oth- 
ers, that  firm,  slow,  manly  tread,  knew  that  this 
watcher  by  night  as  by  day  was  indeed  Paul 
Lynedon. 

Thus  weeks  passed.  She  never  saw  his  face 
except  at  church,  and  then  he  always  crept  into 
the  shadow.  And  though  once  or  twice  she  un- 
wittingly looked  that  way,  it  was  with  the  cold- 
ness and  sternness  that  became  the  insulted  wife, 
the  widow  of  Hugh  Ogilvie. 

But  this  could  not  last.  One  morning — it  was 
so  early  that  the  April  dews  yet  glistened  in  the 
sunshine — Katharine  took  her  solitary  walk  to  a 
glade  in  the  park,  which  had  been  her  favorite 
haunt  in  her  girlhood.  She  had  brought  him 
there  long  ago,  and  they  had  spent  an  hour's 
happy  talk  together,  sitting  on  a  fallen  tree, 
half-covered  with  ivy,  while  she  sang.  He  had 
carved  thereon  her  initials,  and  his  own.  They 
were  there  still :  Katharine  moved  aside  the  ivy 
which  had  wreathed  round  them,  and  bent  ten 
derly  over  this  record  of  the  past. 

And  then,  as  he  sprang  from  the  shadow  of 
the  trees,  she  saw  Lynedon  stand  before  her. 

Her  first  impulse  was  to  fly,  but  she  had  no 
strength,  not  even  to  utter  the  stern  command 
which  rose  to  her  lips ;  and  when  she  looked  on 
him  again,  the  words  were  silenced  by  another 
feeling.  He  was  so  changed,  so  haggard  in 
face,  so  bent  in  form,  that  he  might  have  borne 
the  burthen  of  more  than  forty  years.  The  deep 
eye  had  grown  wild  and  restless,  the  brow  was 
marked  with  many  a  line,  and  the  dark,  beauti- 
ful hair  was  threaded  with  gray.  He  stood 
there,  and  only  uttered  one  word — 

"Katharine!" 

Hearing  it,  she  rose,  and  her  eyes  flashed 
through  the  tears  which  filled  them.  "  Why  do 
you  come  here  ?  why  do  you  haunt  my  presence  ? 
Paul  Lynedon !  You  dare  to  cross  my  path  still  ? 


134 


THE  OG1LVIES. 


But  he  only  answered  to  the  wrath  with  an 
accent— tender,  humble,  despairing— "  Katha- 

Unce  more  she  looked  upon  him,  and  her  tone 
softened.  "You  must  not  come  here — you  must 
leave  me.  Still  you  move  not  ?  Then  I  go."( 

"Katharine,  one  word!" 

"  Do  not  speak — do  not  follow  me.  You  can 
not — youdaronot.  Ay,  that  is  well."  Removed 
aside ;  and  she  passed  on  a  few  steps,  and  then 
turned.  He  had  fallen  on  the  ivy-covered  tree, 
his  head  lying  on  the  spot  where  he  had  carved 
her  name. 

Katharine  could  struggle  no  more.  "  Paul ! 
Paul !"  and  she  stretched  out  her  hands. 

He  sprang  forward,  and  pressed  them  to  his 
breast — his  brow ;  but  the  next  moment  she  had 
snatched  them  away  with  a  cry. 

"I  dare  not,  I  dare  not,  Paul.  Speak  no  word, 
but  go  from  my  sight." 

"I  will  go,  if  you  desire.  Only  say  that  you 
forgive  me.  Oh,  Katharine,  if  I  sinned,  I  have 
suffered  too  !" 

"We  have  both  sinned,  and  we  must  both 
suffer ;  it  is  our  doom.  We  must  never  look  on 
«ach  other's  face  again." 

"  Have  you  no  mercy  now,  when  you  are  free 
— when  it  is  no  crime  in  the  sight  of  earth  or 
heaven  for  us  to  Jove  one  another?  Katharine," 
he  continued,  catching  her  arm,  and  holding  it 
in  his  firm  grasp,  "  I  remember  what  you  said 
to  me  that  night — ay,  every  word — how  you 
have  loved  me  all  your  life.  Yes,  and  you  love 
me  still !  I  saw  your  tears  fall  but  now,  and  I 
knew  it  was  at  the  remembrance  of  me.  See, 
you  tremble,  you  shrink :  Katharine,  you  shall 
not  part  from  me."  And  he  spoke  in  a  low, 
desperate  tone.  "  I  tell  you,  whether  it  is  right 
or  wrong,  you  shall  be  my  wife." 

She  felt  his  power  upon  her,  gathering  over 
her  like  a  cloud  of  destiny,  through  which  she 
could  not  pierce.  She  remained  so  mute,  so 
frozen,  that  Lynedon  was  terrified. 

"Katharine,  speak  to  me;  say  that  I  have 
not  angered  you.  Look  on  me,  and  see  what  I 
have  endured.  -  For  these  weeks  past  I  have 
tracked  your  walks,  only  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 
your  dress,  or  see  the  print  of  your  footsteps ; 
then  at  night  I  have  prowled,  like  a  thief,  under 
your  window,  watching  while  you  slept.  But  I 
dared  not  enter  your  presence ;  I  would  never 
have  done  so,  save  that  I  saw  you  weeping  here. 
Is  not  this  love?  is  not  this  penitence?'' 

She  looked  at  him,  only  once ;  but  he  gather- 
ed courage,  and  went  on.  "  Why  should  we 
not  be  happy?  If  we  erred,  you  will  pardon 
me,  and  Heaven  will  forgive  us  both.  Katha- 
rine, you  shall  bring  back  to  me  my  youth,  you 
shall  make  me  what  you  will ;  we  will  live  over 
again  the  happy  past"" 

"Not  the  past,"  dried  Katharine;  "we  have 
no  past  we  dare  not  have." 

"  But  we  have  a  future — that  is,  if  you  hear 
my  words,  and  forsake  me  not.  If  otherwise, 
Katharine,  shall  I  tell  you  what  you  will  do?" 
And,  as  Paul  stood  over  her,  his  wild  eyes 
sought  hers,  speaking  more  even  than  his  words. 
"  You  will  drive  me  from  you,  a  vagabond  on 
the  face  of  the  earth  :  there  is  no  evil  which  I 
shall  not  commit,  or  else  I  shall  die— die  miser- 


ably, perhaps  by  my  own  hand." 
"No.  no,  Paul— my  Paul!  you 


you  shall  not  die  ; 


I  will  save  you  if  I  peril  my  hope  of  heaven  for 
your  sake !"  was  the  bitter  cry  that  burst  from 
Katharine's  heart  and  lips,  as  she  clasped  both 
his  hands  and  held  them  long,  weeping  over 
them  passionately. 

Lynedon  made  her  sit  down  on  the  fallen  tree, 
while  he  threw  back  the  vail  from  her  face,  and 
removed  from  her  fair  head,  so  youthful  still,  the 
tokens  of  widowhood.  As  he  did  so,  he  cast 
them  down  with  a  violent  gesture  and  trampled 
them  under  foot.  Then  he  took  her  hand  and 
began  to  draw  from  it  the  wedding-ring;  but 
Katharine  sprang  from  his  side. 

"  Paul,  I  am  very  guilty,  but  it  is  for  you ; 
you  should  not  torture  me  thus.  Listen.  When 
my  husband — hush !  I  will  call  him  so  still,  for 
he  was  good  to  me — when  my  husband  died,  I 
vowed  to  atone  unto  the  dead  for  my  sin  to- 
ward the  living.  I  said  in  my  heart,  solemnly 
and  truly,  then,  that  I  would  never  be  your  wife. 
Now  I  break  that  vow — the  second  I  have 
broken  for  you.  Paul,  it  is  a  fearful  thing  to 
have  this  upon  my  soul.  You  must  be  kind  and 
tender  to  me — you  must  let  me  wait  a  year — 
two  years — until  all  this  horror  has  passed,  and 
then—" 

"  You  will  be  mine — my  own  wife  ?"  cried 
Lynedon,  joyfully.  He  knelt  beside  her  on  the 
grass,  and  would  have  folded  her  in  his  arms, 
but  Katharine  drew  back. 

"  Not  yet,  not  yet,"  she  muttered.  *•  It  seems 
as  though  he  stood  between  us — he,  my  husband 
— he  will  not  let  me  come  to  you.  This  happi- 
ness will  be  too  late  !  I  know  it  will." 

And  while  she  spoke  she  drew  her  breath 
with  a  deep  sigh,  and  put  her  hand  suddenly  to 
her  heart. 

"What  ails  you,  Katharine,  my  darling  Katha- 
rine ?"  cried  Lynedon,  anxiously. 

"  Nothing — the  pain  will  pass  soon — I  am 
used  to  it.  Let  me  rest  my  head  here,"  she 
answered  faintly.  He  stood  by  her  side,  and 
she  leaned  against  his  arm  in  silence  for  a  few 
minutes.  Then  she  looked  up  with  a  sad,  grave 
smile.  "  I  am  well  now,  Paul,  thank  you !  You 
see  I  make  you  my  comfort  and  support  al- 
ready." 

"  Dearest,  how  happy  am  I !  May  it  be  ever 
so !"  was  the  low,  loving  answer.  Her  face  was 
hid  from  him,  or  he  would  have  seen  that  there 
passed  over  it  a  spasm  of  agony  awakened  by 
his  words. 

Then  it  was  that  Katharine  felt  the  curse  of 
a  granted  prayer.  The  death  so  madly  longed 
for  was  now  a  horrible  doom !  To  die,  in  the 
midst  of  youth  and  hope !  to  leave  him — to  go 
into  the  still,  dark  grave,  without  the  blessing 
of  his  love — it  was  fearful ! 

"Paul,  Paul,  save  me!"  she  almost  shrieked. 
"  Hold  me  in  your  arms — fast — fast ! — Do  not 
let  me  die !" 

He  thought  her  words  were  mere  ravings, 
and  asked  no  questions,  but  soothed  her  tenderly. 
After  a  while  she  spoke  again,  not  wildly,  but 
solemnly. 

"Paul,  a  little  while  since  I  told  you  that  it 
must  be  a  year  or  more  before  you  made  me 
yours.  But  I  shall  not  live  till  then." 

He  looked  anxiously  on  her  face  and  form. 
I  There  was  no  outward  sign  of  wasted  health, 
!  so  he  smiled  calmly. 

"  These  fears  are  nothing,  my  Katharine ;  you 


THE  (JG1LV1ES. 


135 


shall  live  many  happy  years.  I  will  end  all 
su'oh  forebodings  when  you  give  me  the  right  to 
do  so — when  you  let  me  call  you  wife." 

"You  may  call  me  so  when  you  will,"  an- 
swered Katharine,  in  a  low  tone.  "  A  month, 
a  week — ay,  who  knows  how  soon  the  end  may 
come  !  But  I  will  defy  fate  !  Paul — my  Paul 
— my  only  love  !" — and  she  threw  herself  upon 
his  breast,  clinging  to  him  wildly — "  I  will  not 
be  torn  from  you — I  will  live  until  that  blessed 
day!" 

Lynedon,  only  too  joyful  thus  to  win  his 
bride,  overwhelmed  her  with  the  outburst  of  his 
happiness.  He  counted  all  her  fears  as  an  idle 
dream ;  and  ere  they  left  the  dell,  he  had  fixed 
the  first  May-morning  for  their  marriage-day. 

"It  will  indeed  be  May-time  with  us  then," 
he  said,  as  with  an  almost  boyish  fondness  he 
leaned  over  her  and  fastened  her  bonnet.  "  And 
this  dear  head  shall  have  that  hateful  vail  no 
more,  but  a  bridal  garland." 

"And  afterward — afterward !"  murmured  Ka- 
tharine. But  she  drove  back  the  chilling  horror 
— she  looked  in  the  glad  face  of  her  bridegroom 
— she  leaned  on  his  arm  as  they  walked  slowly 
on,  with  sunshine  and  flowers,  and  birds  singing 
every  where  around  them. 

Could  it  be  that  over  all  this  bliss  frowned 
the  heavy  shadow  of  Death  ? 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

Scarce  I  heed 
These  pangs.    Yet  thee  to  leave  is  death— is  death  indeed ! 

*  *  *  *  * 

Yet  seems  it,  even  while  life's  last  pulses  run, 

A  sweetness  in  the  cup  of  death  to  be, 

Lord  of  my  bosom's  love,  to  die  beholding  thee ! 

CAMPBELL. 

KATHARINE  revealed  the  tidings  of  her  ap- 
proaching marriage  to  neither  father  nor  mother. 
Sir  Robert  would  have  talked  of  the  "honor  of 
the  family,"  which  forbade  even  the  most  de- 
sirable second  union  until  the  days  of  mourning 
were  ended.  And  Lady  Ogilvie,  who  now 
rested  tranquilly  in  the  knowledge  that  she 
would  never  be  parted  from  her  daughter,  would 
have  bitterly  murmured  at  the  faintest  hint  of 
separation.  Katharine  knew  all  this,  and  pre- 
pared for  a  secret  union — unhallowed  by  a  pa- 
rent's blessing. 

Only  once,  by  her  earnest  desire,  Lynedon, 
almost  against  his  will,  came  openly  to  Sum- 
merwood.  He  spent  a  few  hours  with  Sir  Rob- 
ert, striving  to  act  the  part  of  a  chance  guest, 
and  then  Katharine  brought  him  to  her  mother's 
apartment.  He  sat  down  by  Lady  Ogilvie's 
side,  and  talked  to  her  in  a  tone  so  gentle  and 
tender  that  Katharine  •  blessed  him  with  her 
whole  souL  She  longed  to  throw  herself  at  her 
mother's  feet,  beseeching  her  to  take  to  her 
heart  as  a  son,  this  dearest  one  in  whom  was 
centered  her  child's  every  hope.  But  just  then, 
Lady  Ogilvie  chanced  to  speak,  and  her  first 
words  made  Katharine's  impulse  change. 

"  Yes,  as  you  say,  Mr.  Lynedon,  I  am  much 
better  than  I  used  to  be.  It  is  all  Katharine's 
doing  ;  the  very  sight  of  her  seems  to  make  me 
young  again.  I  feel  quite  different  since  she 
has  come  back  to  live  at  Summerwood.  She 
must  never  leave  me  again." 


Lynedon  made  no  reply.  He  had  -ong  since 
abandoned  all  false  and  feigning  speech.  Such 
could  not  be  uttered  beneath  Katharine's  eye, 
or  within  the  influence  of  Katharine's  earnest 
nature. 

Ere  he  departed,  Paul  took  Lady  Ogilvie's 
hand  with  affectionate  reverence,  and  said,  softly, 
"I  shall  not  see  you  again  for  a  little  while. 
Will  you  not  bid  me  farewell  and  good  speed 
on  my  journey?  for  it  is  a  sweet  and  solemn 
one  to  me,  and  when  I  return  it  will  not  be 
alone." 

"  What,  Mr.  Lynedon !  you  are  going  to  be 
married  at  last  ?  I  do  not  like  weddings — not 
much — but  I  hope  yours  will  be  a  happy  one, 
And  who  is  your  bride?" 

"You  will  know  soon,"  and  Paul  drooped 
his  head — he  could  not  bear  to  look  in  Lady 
Ogilvie's  face.  "Only,  dear  friend,  our  wed- 
ding will  miss  one  happiness.  I  have  no  mother 
to  bless  my  bride.  Let  me  take  her  a  kind 
wish  and  a  blessing  from  you." 

"  Indeed  you  must.  I  am  sure  we  shall  like 
her  very  much,  whoever  she  be — shall  we  not, 
Katharine?  Good-by,  Mr.  Lynedon;  and  God 
bless  you  and  your  wife,  and  give  you  a  long 
and  happy  life  together." 

Paul  Lynedon  kissed  the  aged  hand  that  she 
extended  to  him,  and  was  gone. 

That  night  Katharine  stood  beside  her  sleep- 
ing mother,  to  take,  in  one  long,  lingering, 
tearful  look,  the  farewell  which  she  could  not 
utter.  Yet  it  would  be  but  a  short  parting; 
for  she  had  made  her  lover  promise  that,  once 
united  beyond  the  chances  of  earthly  severance, 
they  should  both  speed  to  ask  her  mother's  for- 
giveness and  blessing. 

The  blessing  seemed  on  Lady  Ogilvie's  pro- 
phetic lips  even  now.  Her  fancy  returned  in 
dreams  to  the  tidings  of  which  she  had  often 
spoken  during  the  day ;  and  as  Katharine  leaned 
over  her  she  heard  her  mother  repeat  once 
again,  mingled  with  a  blessing,  the  name  of 
Lynedon. 

It  sounded  like  a  late  hallowing  of  the  love 
which  had  sprung  up  in  such  uncontrolled 
vehemence,  and  come  to  maturity  in  a  passion 
that  trembled  on  the  very  verge  of  crime. 

Katharine  sank  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed. 
"  Oh,  that  it  may  indeed  be  so !  that  Heaven 
may  forgive  us  both,  and  suffer  us  to  atone  the 
past!  And,  mother,  surely,  re-echoing  your 
words,  I  dare  now  cry,  '  God  bless  my  Paul — 
my  own  Paul !'  " 

Lady  Ogilvie  moved  in  her  sleep,  disturbed 
by  the  last  pressure  of  her  daughter's  lips ;  and 
then,  stealing  one  lingering,  farewell  gaze, 
Katharine  glided  from  the  room.  Ere  long, 
accompanied  by  an  old,  faithful  servant,  who 
had  been  her  nurse,  she  quitted  her  father's 
house. 

The  place  chosen  for  the  marriage  was  a 
village  some  miles  distant,  where  the  nurse's 
daughter  lived.  Beneath  the  roof  of  this  little 
cottage,  which  in  its  rose-embowered  beauty 
had  been  the  very  paradise  of  her  childhood, 
Katharine  spent  the  eve  of  her  second  bridal. 
It  was  strangely  unlike  the  first — more  so  than 
might  have  been  imagined,  for  the  intensity  of 
suffering  and  of  joy  are  very  near  akin.  But 
Lynedon's  bride  felt  no  excess  of  joy ;  a  solemn 
shadow  hung  over  her  which  she  could  not  dis- 


136 


i'HE  UG1LVIES. 


pel.  Tnrouffh  it  she  heard  the  chimes  from 
the  near  church-tower,  ring  out  the  passing  of 
the  brief  May-eve;  and  then  she  lay  down  and 
slept— ay,  slept. 

She  was  awakened  at  dawn  by  the  rooks,  who 
from  their  lofty  nests  made  merry  music  over 
the  old  church-yard.  Katharine  rose  up,  and 
the  first  sight  that  met  her  eyes  was  the  white 
grave-stones  that  glimmered  in  the  yet  faint 
light.  Strange  and  solemn  vision  for  a  bride  on 
her  marriage-morn!  Katharine  turned  away, 
and  looked  up  at  the  sky.  It  was  all  gray*  and 
dark,  for  the  shadow  of  the  village  church — the 
church  where  she  was  to  plight  her  vows — 
came  between  her  and  the  sunrise. 

She  buried  her  head  again  in  the  pillow,  and 
tried  to  realize  the  truth,  that  this  day — this 
very  day — Paul  Lynedon  would  be  her  husband, 
loving  her  as  she  had  once  so  vainly  loved  him ; 
that  she  would  never  part  from  him  again,  but 
be  his  own  wife,  the  sharer  of  his  home  through 
life  until  death.  Until  death !  She  thought  the 
words,  she  did  not  say  them,  but  they  filled  her 
with  a  cold,  dull  fear.  To  drive  it  away,  she 
arose.  She  would  have  put  on  her  wedding- 
dress — almost  as  a  spell,  that  the  bridal  garment 
might  bring  with  it  happy  bridal  thoughts — but 
it  was  not  in  her  room.  So  Katharine  dressed 
herself  once  more  in  her  widow's  attire,  and 
waited  until  the  rest  of  the  household  were 
stirring. 

Meanwhile  there  recurred  to  her  mind  a  lov- 
ing duty,  that  befitted  the  time.  She  sat  down 
and  wrote  to  her  mother  a  long,  tender  letter, 
not  proud  but  contrite,  pleading  for  pardon  and 
a  kindly  welcome,  less  for  herself  than  for  her 
husband.  Katharine  paused  an  instant.  "  Yes," 
she  said,  "  he  will  be  my  husband ;  no  earthly 
power  can  come  between  us  now."  Her  pen 
traced  the  word  firmly ;  the  mere  writing  of  it 
sent  happiness  to  her  heart.  As  she  went  on, 
the  pleading  grew  into  a  confession,  and  she  un- 
burthened  from  her  soul  the  weight  of  years. 
Humbly,  repentantly,  she  told  of  that  overwhelm- 
ing love  which  had  come  upon  her  like  a  fate, 
and  had  haunted  her  through  life  until  it  became 
its  own  avenger.  She  omitted  no  link  in  this 
terrible  history  save  that  which  might  bring 
shame  upon  him  whose  honor  was  soon  to  be 
one  with  hers. 

Katharine  finished  the  letter  all  but  the  signa- 
ture. A  few  hours  more,  and  she  would  write, 
as  her  own,  that  long-beloved  name.  The 
thought  came  upon  her  with  a  flood  of  bewilder- 
ing joy.  She  leaned  her  forehead  on  the  paper 
in  one  long,  still  pause;  and  then  sprang  up, 
pressing  her  clasped  hands  in  turns  to  her  heav- 
ing breast  and  throbbing  temples,  in  a  delirium 
of  rapture  that  was  almost  pain. 

"It  is  true — it  is  all  true!"  she  cried — "joy- 
has  come  at  last.  This  day  I  shall  be  his  wife 
— this  day,  nay,  this  hour ;  and  he  will  be  mine 
— mine  only — mine  forever!" 

As  she  stood,  her  once  drooping  form  was 
sublimated  into  almost  superhuman  beauty — the 
beauty  which  had  dawned  with  the  dawning 
love.  It  was  the  same  face  radiant  with  the 
same  shining  which  had  kindled  into  passionate 
hope  the  young  girl  who  once  gazed  into  the 
mirror  at  Summerwood.  But  ten  times  more 
^io\ious  was  the  loveliness  born  of  the  hope 
fulfilled. 


The  hope  fulfilled !  Could  it  be  so,  when, 
excited  by  this  frenzied  joy,  there  darted  through 
her  heart  that  warning  pang  ?  She  sank  on  the 
bed,  struck  with  a  cold  numbness.  Above  the 
morning  sounds  without — the  bees  humming 
among  the  roses,  the  swallows  twittering  it 
the  eaves — Katharine  heard  and  felt  the  death- 
pulse,  which  warned  her  that  her  hours  were 
numbered. 

To  die,  so  young  still,  so  full  of  life  and  love 
— to  sink  from  Lynedon's  arms  to  the  cold,  dark 
grave — to  pass  from  this  glad  spring  sunshine 
into  darkness,  and  silence,  and  nothingness ! 
It  was  a  horrible  doom !  And  it  might  come 
at  any  moment — soon — soon — perhaps  even  be- 
fore the  bridal ! 

"It  shall  not  come!"  shrieked  the  voice  of 
Katharine's  despair,  though  her  palsied  lips 
scarcely  gave  vent  to  the  sound.  "  I  will  live 
to  be  his  wife,  if  only  for  one  week,  one  day, 
one  hour!  Love  has  conquered  life — it  shall 
conquer  death !  I  will  not  die  /" 

She  held  her  breath ;  she  strove  to  press  down 
the  pulsations  that  stirred  her  very  garments ; 
she  moved  her  feeble  ice-bound  limbs  and  stood 
upright. 

"I  must  be  calm,  very  calm.  What  is  this 
poor,  weak  body  to  my  strong  soul?  I  will 
fight  with  death — I  will  drive  it  from  me.  Love 
is  my  life,  naught  else :  while  that  lasts  I  can 
not  die !" 

But  still  the  loud  beating  choked  her  very 
breath,  as  she  moaned,  "  Paul,  Paul,  come ! 
Save  me,  clasp  me;  let  your  spirit  pass  into 
mine,  and  give  me  life — life  !" 

And  while  she  yet  called  upon  his  name, 
Katharine  heard  from  below  the  voice  of  her 
bridegroom.  He  came  bounding  over  the  little 
gate,  and  entered  the  rose-porch,  wearing  a 
bridegroom's  most  radiant  mien.  She  saw  him ; 
she  heard  him  asking  for  her ;  a  scarce  per- 
ceptible anxiety  trembled  through  his  cheerful 
tone.  Could  she  cast  over  his  happiness  the 
cold  horror  which  froze  her  own?  could  she 
tell  him  that  his  bride  was  doomed  ?  No ;  she 
would  smile,  she  would  bring  him  joy,  even  to 
the  last. 

"  Tell  him  I  am  coming,"  she  said,  in  a 
calm,  cheerful  voice,  to  the  nurse  who  repeated 
Lynedon's  anxious  summons.  And  then  Kath- 
arine bathed  her  temples,  smoothed  her  hair, 
and  went  to  meet  her  bridegroom. 

After  the  first  somewhat  agitated  greeting 
was  over,  Lynedon  regarded  her,  and  a  shadow 
darkened  his  bright  face.  "  What  is  this, 
Katharine  ?"  and  he  touched  her  mourning, 
dress,  which  she  had  forgotten  to  remove. 

She  made  no  answer,  but  mechanically  fol- 
lowed the  old  nurse,  who  led  her  hastily  a-vvay 
to  take  off  the  ill-omened  garment.  When  &ne 
re-appeared,  Paul  looked  at  her  admiringly, 
smoothed  the  folds  of  her  white  garments,  and 
passed  his  hands  lovingly  over  the  shining  braids 
of  her  beautiful  hair — no  longer  hidden  under 
the  widow's  cap. 

"Now  you    look   like  a  bride,  though  your 

dress  is  so  simple.     But  we  will  have  store  of 

ornaments  yet.     Not  a    lady  in  England  shal' 

!  outshine  my  Katharine.     And  when  we  have  u 

rich,  beautiful,  happy  home,  perhaps  some  time 

her  wish  may  come  true,  and  she  may  be  the 

,  wife  of  a  great  statesman  yet.     But.  darling^ 


THE  OGILVIES. 


137 


fou  shiver !  How  cold  these  spring  mornings 
are  still!" 

He  drew  her  from  the  window,  and  made  her 
sit  down.  They  went  through  the  form  of 
breakfast,  in  order  to  please  the  anxious  mis- 
tress of  the  little  cottage  parlor.  Lynedon  still 
talked  of  his  plans — their  plans,  seeking  few 
replies.  Only  once  he  thought  his  bride  ap- 
peared grave,  and  asked  her  "  if  she  were  quite 
content  with  him— quite  happy  ?" 

"Yes!"  she  "said,  and  turned  toward  him, 
her  lips  smiling.  He  saw  their  rich  rosy  curves  ; 
he  never  looked  at  her  eyes. 

When  the  marriage-hour  approached  they 
were  summoned  by  the  old  nurse,  the  only  wed- 
ding guest. 

"  Ours  is  a  strange,  informal  bridal,"  said 
Lynedon,  with  a  disappointed  air.  "  But  we 
will  make  amends  for  it.  When  we  take  our 
beautiful  house,  we  will  have  a  merry  coming 
home." 

Katharine  sank  on  a  chair.  "  Hush,  Paul,  do 
not  talk  to  me — not  now." 

He  might  have  murmured  a  little,  but  the 
tone  of  her  voice  filled  him  with  inexplicable 
awe.  He  was  rather  agitated,  too,  as  the  bridal 
hour  drew  nigh.  So  he  drew  her  arm  through 
his,  and  they  walked  in  silence  through  the  haw- 
thorn-scented lane  that  led  to  the  church. 

At  the  little  wicket-gate  which  formed  the 
lowly  entrance  to  the  village  sanctuary,  Kath- 
arine paused.  The  church-yard  was  a  fair  sight. 
The  sunshine  sparkled  dazzlingly  on  the  white 
stones,  which  had  looked  so  ghostlike  in  the 
dawn ;  and  every  green  nameless  hillock  had 
its  flower-epitaph  written  in  daisy-stars.  Many 
a  cheerful  sound  pervaded  the  spot ;  for  it  was 
bounded  on  one  side  by  several  cottages,  whose 
inmates  had  made  this  quiet  resting-place  of  the 
de^d  a  garden  for  the  living.  A  narrow  path- 
way only  divided  the  flower-beds  from  the 
graves,  and  among  them  both  the  cottage  chil- 
dren played  all  day  long.  There  was  no  yew 
nor  cypress  to  cast  gloom  on  the  place ;  but 
leading  to  the  church-door  was  an  avenue  of 
limes,  in  whose  fragrant  branches  the  bees  kept 
up  a  pleasant  murmur.  And  the  merry  rookery 
close  by  was  never  silent  from  dawn  till  eve. 
It  was  a  place  that  made  Death  beautiful,  as  it 
should  be. 

Katharine  looked — and  a  little  of  the  freezing 
horror  passed  from  her  soul.  "  It  would  not  be 
so  fearful  to  sleep  here,"  she  whispered  half  to 
herself,  "  with  sunshine  and  flowers,  and  chil- 
dren's voices  above.  Paul,  when  Idle,"  and  she 
uttered  the  words  fpith  less  terror,  though 
solemnly,  "  when  I  die,  do  not  let  them  take 
me  to  that  gloomy  vault  at  Summerwood ;  and 
put  no  stone  over  me — only  grass.  I  think  I 
could  rest  then." 

Lynedon  turned  toward  her  with  a  smile. 

"  Katharine,  dearest,  you  do  not  mean  what 
you  say — you  would  not  leave  me,  would  you  ?" 

"No,  noj"  cried  Katharine,  with  wild  vehe- 
mence 5  and,  as  she  clung  to  her  bridegroom's 
arm,  and  looked  up  into  his  eyes,  the  olden 
madness  came  over  her,  and  she  could  have 
bartered  life,  hope,  peace — nay  heaven  itself, 
for  Paul  Lynedon's  love.  She  stood  in  the  sun- 
shine— she  felt  the  breeze — his  presence  sur- 
rounded her — his  tenderness  filled  her  whole 
soul  with  Hiss.  The  terrible  phantom  at  her 


side  grew  dim.  She  forgot  all  things  on  earth, 
save  that  she  was  Paul  Lynedon's  bride. 

At  that  instant  they  passed  out  of  the  sun- 
shine into  the  heavy  gloom  that  pervaded  the 
church.  It  felt  like  entering  a  tomb. 

A  few  minutes'  space,  and  the  scene  which 
the  young  passionate  dreamer  had  once  conjured 
up,  became  reality.  Katharine  knelt  at  the 
altar  to  give  and  receive  the  vow  which  made 
her  Lynedon's  bride.  Through  the  silence  of 
the  desolate  church  was  heard  the  low  mumbling 
of  the  priest — a  feeble  old  man.  He  joined  the 
hands  of  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride,  and 
then  there  darted  through  Katharine's  memory 
another  scene.  As  she  felt  the  touch  of  Paul 
Lynedon's  hand,  she  almost  expected  to  hear 
a  long-silenced  voice,  uttering  not  the  marriage 
benediction,  but  the  awful  service  for  the  dead. 

They  rose  up  man  and  wife.  The  old  nurse 
came  forward  with  her  tearful  congratulations ; 
and  the  clergyman,  as  he  clutched  his  withered 
fingers  over  the  golden  fee,  muttered  something 
about  "long  life  and  happiness."  There  was 
no  other  blessing  on  the  bride. 

But  she  needed  none.  The  whole  wide  world 
was  nothing  to  her  now.  She  only  held  the  hand 
which  pressed  her  own  with  a  tender  though 
somewhat  agitated  clasp,  and  said  to  herself, 
"  I  am  his — he  is  mine — forever."  They  walk- 
ed in  silence  from  the  church,  down  the  lane, 
through  the  rose-porch,  and  into  the  cottage 
parlor.  Then  Katharine  felt  herself  drawn 
closely,  passionately,  into  his  very  heart ;  and 
she  heard  the  words,  once  so  wildly  prayed  for, 
"  My  Katharine— my  wife  /" 

In  that  embrace — in  that  one  long,  never-end- 
ing kiss — she  could  willingly  have  passed  from 
life  into  eternity. 

After  a  while  they  both  began  to  talk  calmly. 
Paul  made  her  sit  by  the  open  window,  while  he 
leaned  over  her,  pulling  the  roses  from  outside 
the  casement,  and  throwing  them  leaf  by  leaf 
into  her  lap.  While  he  did  so,  she  took  courage 
to  tell  him  of  the  letter  to  her  mother.  He  mur- 
mured a  little  at  the  full  confession,  but  when 
he  read  it  he  only  blessed  her  the  more  for  her 
tenderness  toward  himself. 

"  May  I  grow  worthy  of  such  love,  my  Kath- 
arine !"  he  said,  for  the  moment  deeply  touched. 
"  But  we  must  not  be  sad,  dearest.  Come,  sign 
your  name — your  new  name.  Are  you  content 
to  bear  it  ?"  continued  he,  with  a  smile. 

Her  answer  was  another,  radiant  with  intense 
love  and  perfect  joy.  Paul  looked  over  her 
while  she  laid  the  paper  on  the  rose-strewed 
window-sill,  and  wrote  the  words  Katharine. 
Lynedon" 

She  said  them  over  to  herself  once  or  twice 
with  a  loving  intonation  and  then  turned  her  face 
on  her  bridegroom's  arm,  weeping. 

"  Do  not  chide  me,  Paul :  I  am  so  happy — so 
happy !  Now  I  begin  to  hope  that  the  past 
may  be  forgiven  us — that  we  may  have  a  future 
yet." 

"We  may?  We  will,"  was  Lynedon's  an- 
swer. While  he  spoke,  through  the  hush  of 
that  glad  May-noon  came  a  sound-— dull,  sol* 
emn !  Another,  and  yet  another !  It  was  the 
funeral  bell  tolling  from  the  near  church-tower 

Katharine  lifted  up  her  face,  white  and  ghast- 
ly. "  Paul,  do  you  hear  that  ?" — and  her  voice 
was  shrill  with  terror — "  It  is  our  marriage-peal 


(38 


THE  OGILVIES 


— wo  have  no  other,  we  ought  not  to  have.  I 
knew  it  was  too  late  !" 

"Nay,  my  own  love,"  answered  Paul,  be- 
coming alarmed  at  her  look.  He  drew  her 
nearer  to  him,  but  she  seemed  neither  to  hear 
his  voice  nor  to  feel  his  clasp. 

The  bell  sounded  again.  "  Hark  !  hark !" 
Katharine  cried.  "  Paul,  do  you  remember  the 
room  where  we  knelt,  you  and  I ;  and  he  joined 
our  hands,  and  said  the  words,  '  Eartu  to  earth 
—ashes  to  ashes  ?'  It  will  come  true  :  I  know 
it  will,  and  it  is  right  ft  should." 

Lynedon  took  his  bride  in  his  arms,  and  en- 
deavored to  calm  her.  He  half  succeeded,  for 
she  looked  up  in  his  face  with  a  faint  smile. 
"  Thank  you !  I  know  you  love  me,  my  own  Paul, 
my—" 

Suddenly  her  voice  ceased.  With  a  convulsive 
movement  she  put  her  hand  to  her  heart,  and 
her  head  sank  on  her  husband's  breast. 

That  instant  the  awful  summons  came.  With- 
out a  word,  or  sigh,  or  moan,  the  spirit  passed ! 

Katharine  was  dead.  But  she  died  on  Paul 
Lynedon's  breast,  knowing  herself  his  wife,  be- 
loved even  as  she  had  loved.  For  her,  such  a 
death  was  happier  than  life  ! 


CHAPTER  LV. 

She  was  his  own— both,  Love's. 

....  Bliss  unspeakable 
Became  at  once  their  being  and  its  food ; 
The  world  they  did  inhabit  was  themselves, 
And  they  were  Love's,  and  all  their  world  was  good. 

O  ye  whose  hearts  in  happy  love  repose, 
Your  thankful  blessings  at  its  footstool  lay, 
Since  faith  and  peace  can  issue  from  its  woes. 

WKSTLAND  MARSTON. 

IT  was  the  early  twilight  of  a  winter's  day, 
clear  and  cold,  though  not  frosty.  The  fire 
burned  merrily  in  a  cheerful  room — the  draw- 
ing-room of  one  of  those  pretty  homes,  half-cot- 
tage, half-villa,  which  stud  the  environs  of  the 
metropolis.  But  no  hateful  London  sights  and 
sounds  reached  this  dwelling,  for  it  stood  on  a 
fresh,  breezy  hill-side ;  and  the  wind  that  now 
came  whistling  round  had  swept  over  an  open 
champaign,  and  had  shaken  the  blossoms  from 
acres  of  yellow  furze.  This  region  wore  no  re- 
semblance to  the  weary  desert  of  London  ;  and 
though  from  one  spot  on  the  hill-top  you  could 
see  the  vast  cloud-hung  metropolis  lying  far 
beneath,  it  looked  less  like  reality  than  a  shadowy 
city  seen  in  dreams.  Turning  your  steps 
another  way.  you  might  sit  down  under  a  fir- 
grove,  and  gaze  over  a  wide  expanse  of  field, 
wood,  and  water,  stretching  for  miles  toward 
the  west ;  and  in  the  summer,  at  evening  time, 
with  the  sunset  light  fluttering  on  the  boles  of 
the  fir-trees,  and  the  wind  harping  musically  in 
their  topmost  branches,  you  might  fancy  your- 
self in  a  very  fairy-land. 

Within  the  house,  which  lay  close  beside,  was 
fairy-land  too — a  paradise  of  home.  It  was  not 
made  so  by  costly  furniture,  but  its  appendages 
bespoke  what  is  better  than  wealth — taste  and 
refinement.  These  extended  their  influence 
even  to  trifles.  The  crimson  curtain,  looped  up 
with  graceful  ornaments ;  the  mirror,  set  in  its 
fanciful  carved  flowers ;  the  mantle-piece,  with 
"ts  delicate  freight  of  Greek  vases  and  one  or 


two  statuettes,  showed  how  a  beautiful  mind 
can  assemble  all  beautiful  things  around  it. 
The  walls  were  hung,  not  with  pictures,  for 
such  worthily  painted  are  within  the  reach  of 
few,  but  with  prints  from  masters  ancient  and 
modern.  One  could  see  at  once  That  in  this  new 
home — for  it  was  a  new  home — these  treasures 
of  Art  would  be  loved  as  household  comforts, 
reverenced  as  household  gods.  Books,  too,  there 
were — not  exhibited  in  glass  cases  under  lock 
and  key,  but  strewed  here  and  there  as  if  meant 
to  be  read  ;  and  the  open  piano  showed  its  ivory 
smile,  like  the  cheerful  welcoming  face  of  a 
dear  friend ;  it  seemed  to  know,  instinctively, 
that  it  would  be  courted  as  such  in  this  happy 
home. 

There  was  no  sign  of  other  inhabitant,  until 
the  door  opened,  and  a  light  creeping  step 
crossed  the  yet  untrodden  carpet.  The  shadow 
that  crossed  the  mirror  was  that  of  a  woman  in 
mourning,  but  whose  meek,  placid  face  showed 
that  the  garb  was  now  worn  less  for  sorrow 
than  for  tender  memory. 

She  stirred  the  fire,  drew  the  curtains,  lighted 
the  lamp,  and  looked  about  the  room,  performing 
many  a  little  needless  office  which  spoke  of  lov- 
ing expectation.  Then  she  sat  down,  but  rose 
up  every  five  minutes  to  peer  through  the  cur- 
tains out  into  the  night.  She  started  at  hearing 
a  ring  at  the  bell ;  but  composed  herself,  saying 
half  aloud,  that  "  It  could  not  be  they,  for  there 
were  no  carriage-wheels."  Still  she  was  a  lit- 
tle tremulous  and  agitated  when  the  door  open- 
ed, and  the  pretty-looking  white-ribboned  maid 
announced  Mr.  David  Drysdale. 

"  Too  soon,  I  see ;  but  I  thought  I  might  ven- 
ture to  take  a  peep  at  the  little  nest  before  the 
birds  came  in  it,  especially  as  you're  here. 
Very  glad  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Penny thorne." 

She  gave  him  her  hand  and  asked  him  to  sit 
down,  but  rather  hesitatingly.  She  was  always 
very  much  afraid  of  David  Drysdale.  But  she 
need  not,  for  the  sharpness  in  his  manner  had 
long  since  been  softened  to  her. 

"  Thank  you.  I  will  stay  a  few  minutes, 
just  to  look  round,  and  hear  about  the  young 
couple.  When  do  they  come  home  ?" 

"To-night,"  was  the  answer.  "They  have 
had  a  month's  traveling,  and  Mrs.  Wychnor 
wants  to  keep  this  New  Year's  Eve  at  home." 

"At  home!  It  sounds 'a  sweet  word  to  them 
now,  I  dare  say.  I  can  understand  it  better 
since  I've  studdied  the  science  of  human  na- 
ture," said  Drysdale,  musing.  "I  did  not  like 
Philip's  marrying,  at  first :  a  great  mind  should 
do  without  all  that — I  always  did.  But  may  be 
he  was  right.  Perhaps  the  lark  would  not  soar 
with  so  strong  a  wing,  or  sing  so  loud  and  high, 
if  it  had  not  a  snug  little  nest  on  the  ground." 

"Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Pennythorne — seeing 
that  he  looked  at  her,  though  she  did  not  quite 
understand  what  he  was  talking  about. 

Drysdale  gave  a  grunt  and  stopped.  After  a 
minute's  silence  he  uttered  the  rather  suspicious 
remark,  "  I  hope  Master  Philip's  wife  is  a  wom- 
an with  brains?" 

"  She  is  very  clever,  I  believe,  and  she  loves 
him  so  dearly !  There  is  not  a  sweeter  creature 
living  than  Miss  Eleanor — Mrs.  Wychnor  that 
is  now.  Do  you  know,"  and  Mrs.  Pennythorno 
seemed  becoming  positively  eloquent,  "  She 
would  net  even  be  married  until  she  had  nursed 


THE  OGiLVIES. 


139 


poor   Lady  Ogilvie,   through  h«r  iong  illness, 
never  quitting  her  until  she  died." 

"  Ah,"  said  David,  looking  very  grave,  "that 
was  an  awftil  story  !  I  always  said  there  was 
something  not  right  about  Lynedon.  He  wasn't 
a  true  soul  /"  and  the  energetic  hand  came  down 
upon  the  table  with  a  sound  that  quite  startled 
Mrs.  Penny thorne. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  Drysdale  went 
on,  "but  when  I  think  of  that  poor  Mrs.  Ogilvie, 
it  makes  me  hate  him.  Mrs.  Lancaster  would 
have  told  fine  lies  about  them  if  Philip  Wychnor 
had  not  stopped  her  mouth.  But  I  never  be- 
lieved any  thing  against  that  beautiful,  earnest- 
hearted  creature. 

"Nor  I — for  her  poor  mother  died  speaking 
quite  happily  of  the  dear  Katharine  whom  she 
was  going  to  meet.  And  I  do  believe,  Mr. 
Drysdale,  that  she  knew  all  the  story,  though 
no  one  else  did.  I  fancied,  and  Miss  Eleanor 
too,  that  it  was  told  in  the  letter  which  Mrs. 
Ogilvie  wrote  just  before  that  strange  wedding. 
We  found  it  under  the  mother's  pillow,  and  it 
was  put  in  her  coffin  by  her  desire." 

"  Poor  things !  Well,  it's  better  to  give  up 
the  humanities  altogether.  One  can  make  very 
tolerable  children  of  one's  books— quiet  babies, 
too ;  always  turn  out  well,  and  don't  die  before 
oneself.  Perhaps,  some  of  these  days,  our  young 
friend  here  may  envy  such  a  ragged  childless  old 
philosopher  as  I." 

But  just  then,  as  Drysdale  looked  on  the 
cheerful,  smiling  room,  and  thought  of  his  own 
gloomy  attic,  the  faintest  shadow  of  a  doubt 
crossed  his  mind.  Mrs.  Pennythorne  sat  gazing 
on  the  fire,  the  expression  of  her  soft  brown 
eyes  deepened  by  a  memory  which  his  words  had 
awakened — a  memory  not  sad  now,  but  calm  and 
holy.  If  the  newly-married  pair  could  have 
beheld  her,  and  then  regarded  the  quaint,  rest- 
less-eyed, lonely  old  man,  they  would  have 
clasped  each  other's  hands,  and  entered  on  life 
without  fear,  knowing  that  "it  was  not  good  for 
man  to  be  alone." 

David  Drysdale  staid  a  little  while  longer, 
and  then  departed.  Mrs.  Pennythorne's  thought- 
ful mood  might  have  ended  in  sadness,  but  that 
she  found  it  necessary  to  bestir  herself  in  erasing 
the  marks  of  two  muddy,  clumsy  boots  from 
the  pretty  carpet.  She  had  scarcely  succeeded 
when  the  long-desired  arrival  was  heard. 

Who  shall  describe  the  blessed  coming  home 
— the  greeting,  all  smiles  and  tears  and  broken 
words ;  the  happy,  admiring  glances  around ; 
the  fire-side  corner,  made  ready  for  the  bride; 
the  bonnet-laden  handmaid,  rich  in  courtesies 
and  curiosity;  until  the  door  closes  upon  the 
little  group  ? 

"  Now,  my  Eleanor,"  said  the  young  husband, 
"welcome  home !" 

"Welcome  home!"  echoed  Mrs.  Penny- 
thorne, almost  ready  to  weep.  But  very  soon 
Philip  took  her  hand,  and  Eleanor  fell  on  her 
neck  and  kissed  her  almost  like  a  daughter. 
Then  they  both  thanked  her  tenderly,  and  said 
how  pleasant  it  was  to  have  her  kind  face 
awaiting  them  on  their  arrival. 

"  You  will  stay  with  us  and  keep  this  New- 
Year's  Eve.  dear  friend?"  said  Philip.  It  cer- 
tainly cost  him  something  to  give  the  invitation, 
but  he  did  it  warmly  "and  sincerely,  feeling  it 
was  due. 


However,  Mrs.  Pennythorne  did  not  accept  it. 
She  never  left  her  husband  in  an  evening  now, 
she  said;  and  she  had  not  far  to  go — only  to 
her  son's,  where  they  were  staying  with  Fred. 
"  He  rather  likes  to  have  us  there,  now  Isabella 
is  so  much  away ;  and  we  like  it  too,  because  of 
the  baby.  It  is  a  great  comfort  to  have  a  grand- 
child ;  and  he  is  such  a  beauty!"  said  Mrs 
Pennythorne.  "I  sometimes  think  he  has  my 
Leigh's  eyes,  but  I  would  not  let  them  call  him 
so." 

And  though  she  spoke  contentedly,  and  even 
smiled,  it  was  easy  to  see  that  the  mother's 
thoughts  were  with  her  lost  darling  still. 

Then  she  went  away,  and  the  husband  and 
wife  stood  for  the  first  time  by  their  own  hearth 
— not  quite  calmly,  perhaps,  for  Philip's  voice 
trembled,  and  Eleanor's  long  lashes  were  cast 
down,  glittering  with  a  joyful  tear.  But  the 
husband  kissed  it  away,  and  then  stretched  him 
self  out  in  the  arm-chair,  book  in  hand,  to  "  act 
the  lazy,"  as  he  said,  while  she  made  tea.  He 
did  not  read  much,  apparently,  for  he  held  the 
volume  upside  down ;  and  when  his  wife  stood 
beside  him  with  the  tea,  he  drew  her  bright 
face  down  to  his  with  a  fondness  that  threw  both 
cup  and  saucer  into  imminent  peril. 

Then  they  wandered  together  about  the  room 
and  the  house,  admiring  every  thing,  and  talk- 
ing  of  a  thousand  happy  plans.  Eleanor  sat 
down  to  the  piano  and  began  to  sing,  but  her 
tones  faltered  more  than  once ;  and  Philip  tried 
to  read  aloud,  but  it  would  not  do — both  their 
hearts  were  full  of  happiness  so  tremulous 
and  deep.  At  last  Eleanor  made  her  hus- 
band lean  back  in  his  arm-chair,  while  she 
came  and  sat  at  his  feet,  laying  her  head  on  his 
knee.  Thus  they  rested,  listening  to  the  wailing 
of  the  stormy  wind  outside,  which  made  more 
blessed  the  peace  and  stillness  of  their  own  dear 
home. 

They  talked  not  wholly  of  joy,  but  of  gone-by 
sorrow — even  of  death.  They  spoke  with  a  sol- 
emn tenderness  of  Hugh — of  Katharine — and 
then  of  him  who,  if  still  living,  was  to  them  like 
as  one  numbered  with  the  dead.  Paul  Lynedon 
had  passed  away  and  was  seen  no  more.  Wheth- 
er he  wore  out  existence  in  anguished  solitude, 
or  sought  oblivion  in  reckless  pleasure — perhaps 
crime,  no  one  then  knew,  and  no  one  ever  did 
know.  The  sole  record  of  him  lay  in  a  little  dai- 
sy-covered grave,  on  whose  stone  was  the  name 
"  Katharine  Lynedon." 

"  And,  dearest,"  said  Philip,  "when  I  stood  be- 
side it  last,  in  that  peaceful,  smiling  church-yard 
— where  you  and  I  will  go  to  see  it  one  day — I 
thought  of  the  almost  frenzied  man  who  drove 
me  from  him,  venting  his  sorrow  in  curses,  not 
prayers.  Perchance  the  poor  heart  beneath  my 
feet  might  have  lived  to  know  a  bitterer  sorrow 
still.  And  I  said  to  myself, '  So  best !  so  best !" ' 

Eleanor  kissed  the  hand  on  which  her  cheek 
rested,  and  both  fell  into  a  thoughtful  silence. 
Then  they  spoke  no  more  of  the  past.  Hour  by 
hour  the  old  year  waned,  and  the  young  husband 
and  wife  still  sat  talking,  in  happy  yet  grave 
confidence,  of  their  coming  future — of  Philip's 
future,  for  hers  was  absorbed  in  his. 

"It  shall  be  a  life  good  and  great,  and  full  ol 
honor,"  said  the  wife,  fondly ;  "  I  know  it  will !' 

"If  I  can  make  it  so,  Heaven  helping  me," 
answered  Philip.  "  But  Eleanor,  darling,  it  is  a 


i40 


THE  OGILv'iES. 


hard  life.  too.  We,  who  work  at  once  with  heart, 
soul,  and  brain,  have  many  a  temptation  to  strug- 
gle with,  and  many  a  sorrow  to  bear ;  and  they 
who  love  us  must  bear  much  likewise  for  us,  and 
with  us;  sometimes,  even,  from  us." 

"I  fear  not,"  whispered  Eleanor;  "I,  too, 
will  enter  on  my  life  saying,  in  my  husbandd's 
words,  '  Heaven  helping  me.'  And  Heaven  will 
help  us  both ;  and  we  will  walk  together,  hand- 
in-hand,  each  doing  our  appointed  work  until 
our  lives'  end." 

"  Be  it  even  so,  my  true  wife,  the  helpmeet 
God  has  given  me !"  was  the  low  answer. 


"  And,  my  own  husband,  when  after  all  our 
sorrows  we  rest  here,  heart  to  heart,  looking  back 
on  the  past  as  on  a  troubled  dream,  wherein  wo 
remember  only  the  love  that  shone  through  all, 
let  us  think  of  those  who  still  go  on  in  darkness, 
loving,  struggling,  suffering.  Let  us  pray  that 
they  may  have  strength  to  endure,  waiting  until 
the  light  come.  Oh,  Philip,  God  grant  that  all 
who  love  purely,  truly,  faithfully,  may  find  at 
last,  like  us,  a  blessed  home !" 

"Amen!"  said  Philip  Wychnor. 

And  with  that  prayer  the  first  hour  of  the  New 
Year  dawned. 


THE  END. 


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214.  Misrepresentation.    By  Anna  H.  Drury 1  00 

215.  The  Mill  on  the  Floss.    By  George  Eliot 75 

216.  One  of  Them.    By  Lever 75 

217.  A  Day's  Ride.    By  Lever 50 

218.  Notice  to  Quit.    By  Wills [50 

219.  A  Strange  Story 1  00 

220.  The  Struggles  of  Brown,  Jones,  and  Robinson. 

By  Trollope 50 

221.  Abel  Drake's  Wife.    By  John  Saunders 75 

"2.22,  Olive  Blake's  Good  Work.      By  John  Cordy 

Jeaffreson 75 

223.  The  Professor's  T.ady 25 

224.  Mistress  and  Maul.    By  Miss  Mulock.,, 50 

225.  Aurora  Floyd.    By  M.  E.  Braddon 75 

226.  Barrington.    By  Lever 75 

227.  Sylvia's  Lovers.    By  Mrs.  Gaskell 75 

228.  A  First  Friendship 50 

229.  A  Dark  Night's  Work.    By  Mrs.  Gaskell 50 

230.  Mrs.  Lirriper's  Lodgings .' 25 

231.  St.Olave's 75 

232.  A  Point  of  Honor 50 

233.  Live  it  Down.    Fy  Jeaffreson 1  00 

234  Martin  Pole.    By  Jsaunders 50 

235.  Mary  Lyndsay.    By  Lady  Ponsonby 50 

236.  Eleanor's  Victory.     By  M.  E.  Braddon 75. 

237.  Rachel  Ray.    By  Trollope 50 

238.  John  Marchmont's  Legacy.     By  M.  E.  Braddon  75 

239.  Annis  Warleigh's  Fortunes.    By  Holme  Lee. ..  75 

240.  The  Wife's  Evidence.    By  Wills 50 

241.  Barbara's  History.    By  Amelia  B.  Edwards. ...  75 

242.  Cousin  Phillis 25 

243.  What  will  he  do  with  It  ?    By  Bulwer 1  50 

244.  The  Ladder  of  Life.    By  Amelia  B.  Edwards. . .  50 

245.  Denis  Duval.    By  Thackeray 50 

246.  Maurice  Dering.    By  the  Author  of  t;  Guy  Liv- ' 

ingstone" 50 

247.  Margaret  Denzil's  History.     Annotated  by  her 

Husband 75 

248.  Quite  Alone.     By  George  Augustus  Sala 75 

249.  Mattie:  a  Stray 75 

£250}  My  Brother's  Wife.     By  Amelia  B.  Edwards .. .  50 

25?.  Uncle  Silas.     By  J.  S.  Le  Fanti 75 

252.  Kate  Kennedy 50 

253.  Mi?s  Mackenzie.    By  Anthony  Trollope 50     , 

SSi?  On  Guard.     By  Annie  Thomas 50     \ 

255.  Thno  Leigh.     By  Annie  Thomas 50     ( 

256.  Denis  Donne.    By  Annie  Thomas 50     \ 

257.  Belial 50    j 

258.  Carry's  Confession 75 


THE   WORKS   OF 


SIR  E.  BULWER  LYTTON,  BAET., 


PUBLISHED  EY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN  SQUARE,  NEW  YCR& 


Sent  by  Mail,  postage  free,  on  receipt  of  price. 


A  Strange  Story.  A  Novel.  Illustrated 
by  American  Artists.  8vo,  Paper,  60  cents ; 
Library  Edition,  12mo,  Cloth. 

What  will  He  do  with  It?  A  Novel. 
8vo,  Paper,  $1  00;  Cloth,  $1  25. 

My  Novel;  or,  Varieties  in  English  Life. 

8vo,  Paper,  $1  00;      Library  Edition,  12mo, 

Cloth,  $3  50. 
The   Caxtons.     A  Novel.     Svo,  Paper,  50 

cents;  Library  Edition,  12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

Lucretia;  or,  The  Children  of  Night.  A 
Novel.  Svo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

The  Last  of  the  Barons.  A  Novel.  8vo, 
Paper,  60  cents. 

Night  and  Morning.  A  Novel.  8vo,  Pa- 
per, 50  cents. 

Harold,  the  Last  of  the  Saxon  Kings.  A 
Novel.  Svo,  Paper,  60  cents. 

Pelham ;  or,  The  Adventures  of  a  Gentleman. 
A  Novel.  With  a  New  Introduction  and  Por- 
trait of  the  Author.  8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

Devereux.    A  Tale.     Svo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

The  Disowned.  A  Novel.  8vo,  Paper,  50 
cents. 

The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii.  A  Novel. 
Svo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

The  Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine.  A  Novel. 
Svo,  Paper,  25  cents. 


Zanoni.    A  Novel.     Svo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

Paul  Clifford.  A  Novel.  A  New  and  En* 
larged  Edition.  Svo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

Eugene  Aram.  A  Tale.  Svo,  Paper,  50 
cents. 

Ernest  Maltravers.  A  Novel.  Svo,  Paper, 
50  cents. 

Alice  ;  or,  The  Mysteries.  A  Novel.  A  Se- 
quel to  "Ernest  Maltravers."  Svo,  Paper, 
50  cents. 

Leila ;  or,  The  Siege  of  Granada.  A  Novel. 
12mo,  Cloth,  75  cents. 

Calderoii  the  Courtier.  A  Novel.  12mo, 
Paper,  25  cents. 

Rienzi.    A  Novel.     8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 
Falkland.    A  Novel.     8vo,  Paper,  25  cents, 
Godolphin.    A  Novel.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  00.. 
The  Student.   A  Novel.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 

Athens,  its  Rise  and  Fall.  With  Views 
of  the  Literature,  Philosophy,  and  Social  Life 
of  the  Athenians.  2  vols.  12rno,  Cloth,  $1  25. 

England  and  the  English.  2  vols.  12mo, 
Cloth,  $1  25. 

The  Lady  of  Lyons ;  or,  Love  and  Pride. 
A  Play.  12mo,  Cloth,  50  cents. 

Not  so  Bad  as  we  Seem.  A  Play.  12mo, 
Cloth,  50  cents. 


Who  is  there  uniting  in  one  person  the  imagination,  the  passion,  the  humor,  the  energy,  the 
knowledge  of  the  heart,  the  artist-like  eye,  the  originality,  the  fancy,  and  the  learning  of  Ed- 
ward Lytton  Bulwer?  In  a  vivid  wit— in  profundity  and  a  Gothic  inassiveness  of  thought — in 
style — in  a  calm  certainty  and  definitiveness  of  purpose — in  industry — and,  above  all,  in  the 
power  of  controlling  and  regulating,  by  volition,  his  illimitable  faculties  of  mind,  he  is  unequaled 
— ha  is  unapproacheu. — EDGAR  A  POE. 

To  Bulwer,  the  author  of  "Pelham,"  "The  Caxtons,"  and  "My  Novel,"  we  assign  the  high* 
cst  place  among:  modern  writers  of  fiction.  There  is  always  power  in  the  creations  of  his  fancy ; 
he  is  always  polished,  witty,  learned.  Since  the  days  of  Scott  were  ended,  there  is,  in  our  ap, 
prehension,  no  pinnacle  so  high  as  that  ori  which  we  hang  our  wreath  to  Bulwer:  like  the  Ro- 
man emperor,  a  prince  among  his  equals,  the  first  of  his  craft. — Blackwood's  Magazine. 


W.  M.  THACKERAY'S  WORKS. 


Thackeray's  novels  are  an  indispensable  portion  of  every  well-selected  library.  His  vivid  pic- 
tures of  real  life,  his  keen  perception  of  the  shams  and  pretense  that  lurk  under  an  imposing  ex- 
terior his  biting  sarcasm  on  fashionable  follies,  his  anatomical  dissection  of  character,  with  the 
terse  and  pointed  vigor  of  his  style,  place  him  in  the  front  rank  of  English  fiction-writers,  and 
assure  a  lasting  fame  to  his  productions.  The  personages  who  have  been  the  subjects  of  his 
caustic  pen  appear  like  the  men  and  women  whom  we  meet  in  the  daily  walks  of  society,  and, 
by  their  life-like  naturalness,  make  an  indelible  impression  on  the  imagination  and  memory.  No 
popular  novelist  has  succeeded  so  well  in  representing  the  darker  shades  of  human  nature  with- 
out indulging  in  exaggeration  or  description  of  low  depravity.  His  works  are  no  less  valuable 
as  an  introduction  to  a  knowledge  of  the  world  than  as  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  entertainment 


Why  have  I  alluded  to  this  man  ?  I  have  alluded  to  him,  reader,  because  I  think  I  see  in  him 
an  intellect  profounder  and  more  unique  than  his  contemporaries  have  yet  recognized ;  because 
I  regard  him  as  the  first  social  regenerator  of  the  day — as  the  very  master  of  that  working  corps 
•who" would  restore  to  rectitude  the  warped  system  of  things  ;  because  I  think  no  commentator  on 
his  writings  has  yet  found  the  comparison  that  suits  him,  the  terms  which  rightly  characterize 
his  talent.  They  say  he  is  like  Fielding ;  they  talk  of  his  wit,  humor,  comic  powers.  He  resem- 
bles Fielding  as  an  eagle  does  a  vulture :  Fielding  could  stoop  on  carrion,  but  Thackeray  never 
does.  His  wit  is  bright,  his  humor  attractive ;  but  both  bear  the  same  relation  to  his  serious 
genius  that  the  mere  lambent  sheet-lightning,  playing  under  the  edge  of  the  summer  cloud,  does 
to  the  electric  death-spark  hid  in  its  womb. — "  CURRER  BELL,"  Author  of  Jane  Eyre,  Shirley, 
Villette,  and  The  Professor. 


VANITY  PAIR.  A  Novel  without  a  Hero.  With  II- 
lustrations.  Library  Ed.,  3  v.,  $7  50 ;  Svo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

THE  NEWOOMES.  Memoirs  of  a  Most  Respectable 
Family.  A  Novel.  Edited  by  ABJTHUB  PKNPENNIS,  Esq. 
Illustrated.  Svo,  Cloth,  $3  50. 

PENDENNT3.  The  History  of  Pendennis.  Hii  For- 
tunes  and  his  Misfortunes,  his  Friends  and  his  Great- 
est Enemy.  A  Novel.  With  Illustrations.  2  vols. 

.    8vo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

THE  VIRGINIANS.  A  Novel  With  Illustrations  by 
the  Author.  Svo,  Cloth,  $3  50. 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  PHILIP  on  his  Way 
through  the  World ;  showing  who  robbed  Him,  who 
helped  Him,  and  who  passed  Him  by.  A  Novel.  With 
Illustrations.  Svo,  Cloth,  $2  00, 

HENRY  ESMOND.  The  History  of  Henry  Esmond, 
Esq.,  Colonel  in  the  Service  of  Her  Majesty  Queen 
Anne.  A  NoveL  Written  by  Himself.  Svo,  Paper, 
75  cents. 

LOVEL  THE  WIDOWER.  A  Novel.  With  Illustra- 
tions. Svo,  Paper,  25  cents. 

THE  GREAT  HOGGARTY  DIAMOND.  A  NoveL 
Svo,  Paper,  25  cents. 

ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

Cloth,  $150. 


With  Illustrations.    12mo, 


These  papers  are  most  of  them  pregnant  with  wit,  hu- 
mor, sense,  and  observation.  They  are  wise,  thoughtful, 
truthful,  original,  delightful.  They  are  brilliant,  satiri- 
cal, ironical,  genial,  pathetic,  solacious,  fine,  ripe,  mellow, 
delectable.  And  there  is  a  flavor,  a  relish,  a  tang  in  their 
•tyle  that  is  delicious,  that  is  superior  to  the  exquisite  fla- 
vor of  Congreve's  style.  Those  who  love  pure,  simple, 
strong,  racy,  idiomatic  English,  should  read  these  *'  Round- 
about Papers."— TOM  FOLIO,  la  the  Boiton  Transcript. 


THE  ENGLISH  HUMORISTS  OF  THE  EIGHT- 
EENTH  CENTURY.  Together  with  the  Author's 
Lecture  on  "Charity  and  Humor."  12mo,  Cloth, 
$150. 

In  none  of  the  productions  of  Thackeray's  pen  is  his  ad- 
mirable genius  exhibited  to  greater  advantage  than  in 
these  exquisite  sketches  of  the  English  humorists.  His 
fine  and  subtle  criticisms  of  their  literary  characteristics 
are  by  no  means  the  most  valuable  feature  of  the  work. 
He  aims  rather  at  giving  a  faithful  portraiture  of  their 
personal  traits ;  at  presenting  them  in  the  familiarity  of 
their  homes  and  habitual  haunts  ;  at  showing  us  the  men 
whom  we  have  chiefly  known  as  writers,  and  enabling  the 
readers  to  trace  their  characters  in  their  productions. 
Such  a  gallery  of  intellectual  celebrities,  with  pictures  so 
accurately  drawn,  so  brilliantly  colored,  and  so  exqui- 
sitely shaded,  is  not  to  be  found  in  any  language. 

THE  FOUR  GEORGES.  Sketches  of  Manners,  Morals, 
Court  and  Town  Life.  With  Illustrations.  New  Edi- 
tion. 12mo,  Cloth,  $150. 

We  have  perused  them  several  times,  and  on  each  oc- 
casion with  an  increased  admiration  for  their  remarkable 
condensation  and  unrivaled  brilliancy.  The  research  of 
the  author  has  been  conscientious  and  complete.  Mr. 
Thackeray  has  selected  only  the  choicest  grapes  for  his 
vintage,  and  has  certainly  presented  us  with  a  wine  of 
rich  and  peculiar  flavor.  The  literary  excellence  is  con- 
summate, aided  by  an  artistic  use  of  the  costume  of  the 
period  and  the  limner's  skill,  and  not  disdaining  the  ju- 
dicious use  of  rhetoric.  It  is  not  difficult  to  perceive  that 
Mr.  Thackeray  is  very  capable  of  taking  broad  and  states- 
manlike views  of  the  lives  he  is  discussing.  It  is,  per- 
haps, rather  unfortunate  for  his  great  reputation  that  he 
has  so  exclusively  embraced  the  province  of  satire.  What- 
ever subject  he  discusses,  he  is  expected  to  be  sarcastic 
and  funny.  As  his  genius  has  matured  and  his  fame  in- 
creased, this  great  writer  has  taken  more  earnest  views 
of  human  life. — London  Literary  Gazette. 

THE  ROSE  AND  THE  RING;  or,  the  History  of 
Prince  Giglio  and  Prince  Bulbo.  A  Fireside  Panto- 
mime for  Great  and  Small  Children.  By  Mr.  A.  M. 
Trot  ARSU.  Numerous  Illustrations.  Small  4to,  Cloth, 
$100. 


Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  Franklin  Square,  New  York, 


Sent  by  mail,  postage-free,  on  receipt  of  price. 


YC ! 02520 


